
Class __ElfcL_LSjii3 

Book J_a 

Gopightlj? .. 



COPWRIGHT DEPOSm 






THE GENTLEST ART 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO., Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, Ltd. 

TORONTO 



THE GENTLEST ART 



A Choice of Letters by 
Entertaining Hands 



EDITED BY 

E. V. LUCAS 

AUTHOR OF "A WANDERER IN HOLLAND," 

"A WANDERER IN LONDON," 

ETC., ETC. 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 
1907 

All rights reseTiicd 



Ki:<?*''-^Y of CONGRESS 
iwo Goole? Received 

OCT 9 90r 

Conyneht Entry 

CLASS A XXC, No. 

COPY B. 






Copyright, 1907, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up and electrotyped. Published October, 1907. 



Nortoaoti i^resg 

J. S. Gushing Co. — Berwick & Smith Co. 

Norwood, Mass., U.S.A. 



o 

^ 

f 



As keys do open chests, 
So letters open brests. 

James Howell 



I quite agree with you as to the horrors of correspondence. 
Correspondences are hke small-clothes before the invention 
of suspenders : it is impossible to keep them up. 

Sydney Smith 



Pray do write to me : a few lines soon are better than a 
three-decker a month hence. ' Edward Fitz Gerald 



THE EDITOR EXPLAINS 

DEAR MADAM (OR SIR), — This collection does not 
attempt to be representative ; it does not compete, 
for example, with Mr. Mumby's two volumes. My aim 
was merely to bring together enough good letters to fill 
the book, and then to stop (although, as it happened, 
when the time came I rejected almost as many as I used). 
This places me in a strong position when (as you must 
frequently do) you throw up your hands and exclaim, 
"Why has he left out This — and That?" Sometimes 
the fault will lie with the law of copyright ; but probably 
quite as often it will be either because I had not read the 
letters by This and That, or because I did not care enough 
for them. Perhaps one day I will try again. 
Believe me, yours faithfully, 

E. V. Lucas 

PS. — The sources of all the letters which are copy- 
right are detailed at the end : but here I should like again 
to thank those owners of copyright who have so kindly 
allowed me to pick where I would. 



vu 



CONTENTS 

I. CHILDREN AND GRANDFATHERS 

PAGE 

Marjorie Fleming writes her first letter . . i 

The Rev. Sydney Smith threatens his little grand- 
daughter WITH AWFUL PENALTIES . . .2 
Lord Jeffrey of the Edinburgh Review becomes very 

HUMAN ....... 2 

John Keats is pleased to be an uncle , . -4 

Shirley Brooks congratulates W. P. Frith, R.A., on 

arriving at the status of a grandfather . . 8 

A mother informs the Controller of the London 

"Guild of Play" of the good it has done to Sarah 

Ann . . . . , . .10 

Thomas Hayley (aged twelve) points out defects in 

Cowper's translation of Homer . . .10 

The guilty poet replies . . . . .11 

Thomas Babington Macaulay (aged fourteen) keeps 

Mrs. Hannah More (aged seventy) informed of 

WHAT IS going on . . . . -13 

Hannah More informs Zachary Macaulay, Esq., of the 

mental progress of his son . . . -15 

Lewis Carroll writes to three of his little girl 

friends . . . . . . -17 

Charles Lamb entertains a poet's son . . .20 

Shelley visits Allegra in the convent . . .22 

n. THE NEWS BEARERS 

Charles Dickens employs the pen of Boswell . '25 

The Dean tells Stella all . . . .26 

ix 



PAGE 

Charles Dickens narrates a dream . . .28 

Thackeray describes his Parisian adventures . . S3 

Horace Walpole describes Madame du Deffand . 35 

Charles Lamb sends news to China . , -37 

Charles Dickens chronicles the proceedings of four 

Eton boys . . , . . ,42 

The Rev. Sydney Smith tells Mrs, Grote every- 
thing . . . . . . .46 

Horace Walpole keeps George Montagu informed . 47 
Edward FitzGerald reports progress . . -5° 

Robert Louis Stevenson sets down a day's work at 

Apia ....... 52 

, Thomas Carlyle meets Queen Victoria . -55 

Mary Guilhermin, 1766, instructs children in the art 

OF letter-writing . . . . -58 

III. THE FAMILIAR MANNER 

Miss Austen tells all the news, in three letters . 59 
Dame Dorothy Browne (Sir Thomas Browne's lady) 
gives postscript news of the health and well-being 
OF Master Tommy BroWne, her grandson . . 73 

IV. THE GRAND STYLE 

The Swan of Lichfield greets the Ladies of Llangol- 
len ....... 75 

The Swan of Lichfield word-paints . . '78 

The Swan of Lichfield contemplates the ocean . 81 

V. WITH A SPICE 

Jane Welsh Carlyle tells all the news, in seven 

LETTERS . . . . . . -85 

VI. "RICH EYES" 

Edward FitzGerald rejoices in Frederick Tennyson's 

GREAT cricket MATCH . . . . .Ill 



The Rev. Sydney Smith describes his adventures to 

HIS daughter . . . . . .112 

>Charles Dickens meets a small Irish boy . -113 

Shirley Brooks extols Cornwall to Mr. W. P. Frith, 

R.A. . . . . . . .117 

The Lambs at the Lakes . . . . .119 

Oliver Goldsmith instructs his Uncle Contarine in 

Dutch manners . . . . -123 

John Keats describes Winchester . . .127 

John Keats and Charles Brown discover Scotland . 130 
Edward FitzGerald on Bedfordshire and the Irish 138 
Lord Byron informs Mr. Hodgson of his daily rou- 
tine ....... 140 

Shelley in the Coliseum . . . . .142 

Thomas Gray extols Kent . . . .144 

The Lambs at Cambridge ..... 146 

The Rev. T. E. Brown describes the Jungfrau . 152 



VII. THE LITTLE FRIENDS 

William Cowper loses Puss . . . -155 

Gilbert White becomes Timothy's autobiographer . 157 
Charles Dickens tells Captain Basil Hood of the 

death of his raven . . . . .161 

The Swan of Lichfield loses Sappho . . .162 

Charles Lamb and his dog . . . .164 

Charles Dickens describes his welcome home . .166 



VIII. URBANITY AND NONSENSE 

Horace Walpole affects to reprimand Lady Howe . 169 
Charles Dickens implores the loan of a great trage- 
dian's FANCY VEST . . . . . 170 

Charles Lamb brings himself to write to Australia 171 
The Dean extemporises to Dr. Sheridan . -173 

William Cowper looks backward . . .175 

xi 



PAGE 

Charles Lamb invents for Manning . . .178 

The Dean jests with Miss Hoadley . . .181 

William Cowper drops into verse . . .183 

Charles Lamb cries out against Tartary . .185 

•■W. M, Thackeray thanks a friend for two geese . 188 
Robert Louis Stevenson offers to exchange bodies 

WITH Cosmo Monkhouse . . . .189 

An able-bodied seaman asks his brother to be sure 

TO GET him a creature COMFORT . . ,191 

Letter from a young gentleman to his companion 

recovered from a fit of sickness . . .192 

Answer to the preceding letter . . .192 

IX. FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 

Thomas Carlyle tells all the news, in three letters 193 
Byron is interested in Byron, in two letters . -213 

William Blake utters a manifesto . . .217 

Epistolary Sententia. (To fill a blank space.) . .221 



X. LITERATURE AND ART 

Haydon, Keats, and Shakespeare . . . 223 

The Dean gives Mr. Pope news of Gulliver . . 224 

Miss Edgeworth visits Sir Walter in Edinburgh , 227 

• Miss Edgeworth vis.ts Sir Walter at Abbotsford . 233 

"Dr. John Brown meets Thackeray . . . 235 

'"Thackeray praises Dickens to Mrs. Brookfield . 236 

Edward FitzGerald in a houseful of children . 238 

William Blake reports progress . . . 239 

Edward FitzGerald describes his Sir Joshua . . 240 

XI. GUESTS AND THE PLAY 

Macaulay describes his first visit to Holland House 243 

Charles Lamb among the Blue-Stockings . . 247 

The Rev. Sydney. Smith declines two invitations . 250 

Cicero entertains C^sar . . . . .251 

xii 



Charles Lamb returns thanks for a little pig 
Pliny tells Septitius Clarus what he has missed 
The Rev. Sydney Smith thanks Mr. Arthur Kinglake 

for a book and enlarges on digestion 
Charles Dickens at a French melodr.a.ma 
Thackeray describes to Mrs. Brookfield his adven 

TURES IN A Paris theatre 
Charles Lamb confesses to a night of it 
Epistolary Sententi^ .... 



PAGE 
252 
254 

255 

258 
263 
265 



XII. HUMORISTS AND ODDITIES 

The Ladies' Battle, in four letters . . . 267 

Charles Lamb softens the loss of a brother . , 269 
William Cowper receives a visitor, and becomes a 

prophet in his own country . . . .272 

A Parish Clerk thinks better of it, and withdraws 

HIS threat ...... 274 

Robert Robinson describes a day's work , . 277 
Charles Lamb saves George Dyer's life . .279 

William Cowper is solicited for his vote . . 284 
Charles Dickens gives Wilkie Collins news of John 

Poole ....... 287 

Another model letter from Mary Guilhermin's 

BOOK, 1766 ...... 288 



XIII. THE PEN REFLECTIVE 

Horace Walpole in the vein of Ecclesiastes . . 289 

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu contemplates facts . 291 

William Cowper moralises on Time . . . 293 

James Beattie compares himself with others . . 294 

The Rev. Sydney Smith contemplates another and a 

BETTER life . . . . . . 297 

Seneca enlarges to Lucilius on old age . . 298 

Charles Lamb laments his exile .... 301 

xiii 



XIV. THE MEN OF ACTION 

PAGE 
ABILA.HAM CaNN, THE DEVONSHIRE WRESTLER, CHALLENGES 

POLKINGHORNE, THE CoRNISHMAN . . . 307 

C.A., AN OLD AND NOT UNSOPHISTICATED BOWLER, GIVES HIS 

CAPTAIN A WORD OF COUNSEL ON THE EVE OF THE AlL 

England match ..... 307 

Bob Thoms the umpire sends in his resignation . 30S 

Edward FitzGerald recommends two letters . . 309 

An old Squire supplies a gentleman with an impartial 

character of John Gray .... 309 
A huntsman informs his master of the misfortune 
of his daughter and the state of the hounds . 311 
George Forester gives Mr. Chambers an account of 

the death and funeral of tom moody . -312 

Sergeant Dunt craves permission to fish in Col. Cart- 
wright's STREAM . . . . -3^3 
Captain Nelson tells Collingwood of his hopes and 

FEARS with regard TO THE FRENCH . . .314 

XV. AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY 

Sir William Napier tells Lady Hester Stanhope the 

story of his life . . . . .316 

XVI. FRIENDSHIP AND MORE 

Marjorie Fleming sends her mother her love . 327 

The Dean in Dublin to Mrs. Martha Blount in town 328 
Edward FitzGerald replies at once . . . 330 

Lord Nelson anticipates to Collingwood the Battle 

OF Trafalgar . . . . . .332 

Dr. Johnson makes Miss Susannah Thrale happy . 332 
Lord Collingwood writes to Lady Collingwood of 

his weariness of the sea and the education of 

their children ...... 333 

Thackeray drops into verse to Mrs. Brookfield . 336 
M. DE Bonstetten describes Cambridge, and Mr, Gray 

describes M. de Bonstetten . . . -337 

xiv 



Corporal William Follows sends greeting to Colonel 

William Napier ..... 339 

An Indian Pupil sympathises with Sir George Grove 

after an accident ..... 340 
Mr. Gray unlocks his heart to Richard West . 340 

Dean Swift is anxious for Mr. Pope's health . .341 

Dick Steele in chains ..... 343 
M. Destrosses, a French prisoner, tells Miss Seward 

the news of his release .... 346 
John Sterling bids his friend farewell . . 346 



XVII. THE RURAL RECLUSES 

Charles Napier longs for peace . . . 348 

Edward FitzGerald with Nero and a nightingale . 350 
Mr. Gray describes his rural felicity . . -351 

William Cowper speculates on the Picts . -353 

Pliny describes his villa to Appollinaris . -355 

Shelley bathes at Lucca . . . . -362 

Mr. Shenstone gives Mr. Jago an account of his coun- 
try contentments ..... 365 
Pliny returns to nature ..... 367 
William Cowper in at the death . . . 368 



XVIII. SHADOWS 

Sir Walter Scott accepts the blow . . -37° 

Lord Collingwood thanks the Duke of Clarence for 

ennobling him and tells him of Nelson's death . 373 
Charles Lamb loses an old friend . . -374 

Jeremy Taylor tells John Evelyn of the death of 

A little son ...... 377 

Jeremy Taylor wishes John Evelyn well . -377 

Jeremy Taylor comforts John Evelyn in the death 

of a son ...... 377 

XV 



XIX. SIX POSTSCRIPTS 

PAGE 

I. Remarks on the Gentlest Art by good intellects 382 
II. The earliest letter ..... 

III. The earliest letter by an Englishwoman (without 
postscript) ..... 

IV. The Baboo as letter-writer . 
V. Examples of the Gentlest Art drawn from the 

WORKS of fiction .... 

VI. A model ...... 



Terminal Note 



399 



400 
402 



406 
420 



XVI 



THE GENTLEST ART 



THE GENTLEST ART 



CHILDREN AND GRANDFATHERS 



Marjorie Fleming writes her first letter ^> ^;^ 

MY DEAR ISA, — I now sit down to answer all your 
kind and beloved letters which you was so good 
as to write to me. This is the first time 1 ever wrote a 
letter in my Life. There are a great many Girls in the 
Square and they cry just like a pig when we are under the 
painfull necessity of putting it to Death. Miss Potune 
a Lady of my acquaintance praises me dreadfully. I 
repeated something out of Dean Swift, and she said I 
was fit for the stage, and you may think I was primmed 
up with majestick Pride, but upon my word I felt myselfe 
turn a little birsay — birsay is a word which is a word 
that William composed which is as you may suppose a 
little enraged. This horrid fat simpliton says that my 
Aunt is beautifull which is intirely impossible for that is 
not her nature. 



Two Edinburgh Reviewers 

The Rev. Sydney Smith threatens his little grand- 
daughter with awful penalties for omitting to 
stamp his letter properly ^> ^^> ^^^ 

OH, you little wretch ! your letter cost me fourpence. 
I will pull all the plums out of your puddings ; I 
will undress your dolls and steal their under petticoats ; 
you shall have no currant-jelly to your rice; I will kiss 
you till you cannot see out of your eyes ; when nobody 
else whips you, I will do so ; I will fill you so full of 
sugar-plums that they shall run out of your nose and ears ; 
lastly, your frocks shall be so short that they shall not 
come below your knees. Your loving grandfather, 

Sydney Smith 



Lord Jeffrey of the Edinburgh Review becomes very 
human ^^^^ ^^^ ^^:> -^^ ^v> ^s> 

(To a Grandchild) 

Craigcrook, /7/;z^ 20,1848 

MY SONSY NANCY! — I love you very much, and 
think very often of your dimples, and your 
pimples, and your funny little plays, and all your pretty 
ways; and I send you my blessing, and wish I were 
kissing, your sweet rosy lips, or your fat finger-tips ; and 
that you were here, so that I could hear you stammering 
words, from a mouthful of curds ; and a great purple 
tongue (as broad as it's long) ; and see your round eyes, 
open wide with surprise, and your wondering look, to 
find yourself at Craigcrook! To-morrow is Haggler's 
birthday^ and we have built up a great bonfire in honour of 
it ; and Maggie Rutherfurd (do you remember her at all ?) 
2 



Frankie's Freckles 

is coming out to dance round it ; and all the servants are 
to drink her health, and wish her many happy days with 
you and Frankie, — and all the mammays and pappys, 
whether grand or not grand. We are very glad to hear 
that she and you love each other so well, and are happy 
in making each other happy; and that you do not forget 
dear Tarley or Frankie, when they are out of sight, nor 
Granny either, — or even old Granny pa, who is in most 
danger of being forgotten, he thinks. We have had 
showery weather here, but the garden is full of flowes ; 
and Frankie has a new wheel-barrow, and does a great 
deal of work, and so7ne mischief now and then. All the dogs 
are very well ; and Foxey is mine, and Froggy is Tarley's, 
and Frankie has taken up with great white Neddy, — 
so that nothing is left for Granny but old barking Jacky 
and Dover when the carriage comes. The donkey sends 
his compliments to you, and maintains that you are a 
cousin of his! or a near relation, at all events. He 
wishes, too, that you and Maggie would come ; for he 
thinks that you will not be so heavy on his back as 
Tarley and Maggie Rutherfurd, who now ride him without 
mercy. 

This is Sunday, and Ali is at church — Granny and I 
taking care of Frankie till she comes back, and he is 
now hammering very busily at a corner of the carpet, 
which he says does not lie flat. He is very good, and 
really too pretty for a boy, though I think his two eye- 
brows are growing into one, — stretching and meeting 
each other above his nose! But he has not so many 
freckles as Tarley, who has a very fine crop of them, 
which she and I encourage as much as we can. I hope 
you and Maggie will lay in a stock of them, as I think no 
little girl can be pretty without them in summer. Our 
pea-hens are suspected of having young families in some 
3 



"The Little Span-Long Elf" 

hidden place, for though they pay us short visits now and 
then, we see them but seldom, and always alone. If you 
and Maggie were here with your sharp eyes, we think 
you might find out their secret, and introduce us to a 
nice new family of young peas. The old papa cock, in 
the meantime says he knows nothing about them, and 
does not care a farthing ! We envy you your young peas 
of another kind, for we have none yet, nor any asparagus 
neither, and hope you will bring some down to us in 
your lap. Tarley sends her love, and I send mine to you 
all ; though I shall think most of Maggie to-morrow 
morning, and of you when your birth morning comes. 
When is that do you know? It is never dark now here, 
and we might all go to bed without candles. And so 
bless you ever and ever, my dear dimply pussie. — Your 
very loving Grandpa 



John Keats is pleased to be an uncle ^^> ^c^ 

Winchester, Septejuber [17], Friday [1819] 

MY DEAR GEORGE, — ... I admire the exact 
admeasurement of my niece in your mother's 
letter. O! the little span-long elf. I am not the least a 
judge of the proper weight and size of an infant. Never 
trouble yourselves about that. She is sure to be a fine 
woman. Let her have only delicate nails both on hands 
and feet, and both as small as a May-fly's, who will live 
you his life on a 3 square inch of oak-leaf; and nails she 
must have quite different from the market-women here, 
who plough into butter and make a quarter-pound taste 
of it. 

I intend to write a letter to your wife, and there I may 
say more on this Httle plump subject — I hope she's 
4 



Dilke's Parental Mania 

plump. "Still harping on my daughter!" This Win- 
chester is a place tolerably well suited to me : there is a 
fine cathedral, a college, a Roman Catholic chapel, a 
Methodist do., an Independent do. ; and there is not one 
loom or anything like manufacturing beyond bread and 
butter in the whole city. 

There are a number of rich Catholics in the place. It 
is a respectable, ancient, aristocratic place, and moreover 
it contains a nunnery. Our set are by no means so hail 
fellow well met on literary subjects as we were wont to 
be. Reynolds has turned to the law. By the bye, he 
brought out a little piece at the Lyceum calPd Otie^ 
Two, Three, Four : by Advertisement. It met with 
complete success. The meaning of this odd title is 
explained when I tell you the principal actor is a mimic, 
who takes off four of our best performers in the course 
of the farce. Our stage is loaded with mimics. I did 
not see the piece, being out of town the whole time it 
was in progress. Dilke is entirely swallowed up in his 
boy. 'Tis really lamentable to what a pitch he carries a 
sort of parental mania. 

I had a letter from him at Shanklin. He went on a 
word or two about the Isle of Wight, which is a bit of [a] 
hobby horse of his, but he soon deviated to his boy. "I 
am sitting," says he, " at the window, expecting my boy 
from school." I suppose I told you somewhere that he 
lives in Westminster, and his boy goes to school there, 
where he gets beaten, and every bruise he has, and I 
daresay deserves, is very bitter to Dilke. The place I 
am speaking of puts me in mind of a circumstance which 
occurred lately at Dilke's. I think it very rich and drama- 
tic and quite illustrative of the little quiet fun that he will 
enjoy sometimes. 

First I must tell you that their house is at the corner 
5 



Mr. Lamb's Perplexity 

of Great Smith Street, so that some of the windows look 
into one street, and the back windows into another round 
the corner. 

Dilke had some old people to dinner — I know not who, 
but there were two old ladies among them. Brown was 
there — they had known him from a child. 

Brown is very pleasant with old women, and on that 
day it seems behaved himself so winningly that they 
became hand and glove together, and a little compli- 
mentary. 

Brown was obliged to depart early. He bid them 
good-bye and passed into the passage. No sooner was 
his back turned than the old women began lauding 
him. 

When Brown had reached the street door, and was 
just going, Dilke threw up the window and call'd : 
"Brown! Brown! They say you look younger than 
ever you did." Brown went on, and had just turned 
the corner into the other street when Dilke appeared at 
the back window, crying: "Brown! Brown! By God, 
they say you're handsome !" You see what a many 
words it requires to give any identity to a thing I could 
have told you in half a minute. . . . 

You have made an uncle of me, you have, and I don't 
know what to make of myself. I suppose next there'll be 
a nevey. You say in May last, write directly. I have 
not received your letter above ten days. The thought of 
your little girl puts me in mind of a thing I heard Mr. 
Lamb say. A child in arms was passing by his chair 
toward its mother, in the nurse's arms. Lamb took hold 
of the long clothes, saying: "Where, God bless me, 
where does it leave off ? " 

If you would prefer a joke or two to anything else, I 
have two for you, fresh hatched, just ris, as the bakers' 
6 



Adonals jokes 

wives say of the rolls. The first I played off on Brown ; 
the second I played on myself. Brown, when he left me, 
''Keats," says he, "my good fellow" (staggering upon 
his left heel and fetching an irregular pirouette with his 
right) ; " Keats," says he (depressing his left eyebrow 
and elevating his right one), though by the way at the 
moment I did not know which was the right one; 
" Keats," says he (still in the same posture, but further- 
more both his hands in his waistcoat pockets and jutting 
out his stomach), " Keats, — my — go-o-ood fell-o-o-ooh," 
says he (interlarding his exclamation with certain ventri- 
loquial parentheses), — no, this is all a lie — he was as sober 
as a judge, when a judge happens to be sober, and said : 
" Keats, if any letters come for me, do not forward them, 
but open them and give me. the marrow of them in a few 
words.'' At the time I wrote my first to him no letter 
had arrived. I thought I would invent one, and as I had 
not time to manufacture a long one, I dabbed off a short 
one, and that was the reason of the joke succeeding 
beyond my expectations. Brown let his house to a 
Mr. Benjamin — a Jew. Now, the water which furnishes 
the house is in a tank, sided with a composition of lime, 
and the lime impregnates the water unpleasantly. 

Taking advantage of this circumstance, I pretended 
that Mr. Benjamin had written the following short note: — 

" Sir, — By drinking your damn'd tank water I have 
got the gravel. 

"What reparation can you make to me and my family? 

" Nathan Benjamin " 

By a fortunate hit, I hit upon his right — heathen name 
— his right prenomen. Brown in consequence, it appears, 
wrote to the surprised Mr. Benjamin the following : — 
7 



The New Grandfather 

" Sir, — I cannot offer you any remuneration until your 
gravel shall have formed itself into a stone — when I will 
cut you with pleasure. C. Brown " 

This of Brown's Mr. Benjamin has answered, insisting 
on an explanation of this singular circumstance. B. 
says : "■ When I read your letter and his following, I 
roared; and in came Mr. Snook, who on reading them 
seemed likely to burst the hoops of his fat sides." 

So the joke has told well. . . . 

Shirley Brooks congratulates W. P. Frith, R.A.,on arriv- 
ing at the status of a grandfather, and adds counsel 

"Punch" Office, Noveinber 21, 1865 

FRITH, EVEN GRANDFATHER FRITH,— With 
my whole soul do I congratulate thee and the 
Grandmama, and the venerable Aunt Sissy, and all the 
small uncles and infinitesimal aunts, or emmets. But 
chiefly I congratulate thee, O reverent and reverend, for 
the opportunity now afforded thee for the mending of thy 
ways. Henceforth we look for no frivolity from thee, no 
unseemly gibes and jests to which thou alone addest, 
" That's good," and echo is silent. Henceforth thou 
must study to live at peace with all men, as becomes 

white hairs, and let us hear no more when an- 

nounceth his " last exhibition," that thou didst hope it 
would begin at three minutes to eight a.m. ; and be at 
Newgate. Truly this is a great chance for thee, O man 
of palettes, and aerial prospectives, and conscientious 
work, such as the AtheiicEiim loves to indicate with the 
gesture called " taking a sight." 

Learn psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, to 
8 



" L'art d'etre grandpere '* 

be chanted unto thy Grandchild; and endeavour to 
obtain some knowledge of geography, etymology, tin- 
tacks, and prosody, that thou mayest not be put utterly 
to shame when the child shall demand information of 
thee. 

Leave off smoking, yet keep a box for thy younger 
friends who are not Grandfathers. 

Scoff not at architects, for where wouldst thou be but for 
houses? Nay, art not thou the founder of a house? 

Look no longer at the ankles of the other sex, save in 
the way of thy calling, and speak no soft words unto the 
maidens, saying, " Lo, I adore thee," when thou dost 
nothing of the kind. Abjure the society of low Bohe- 
mians like and , but cultivate the honest and 

virtuous, like Brooks, and, in so far as thou mayest, 
imitate him. Do not eat too much ham at breakfast, for 
temperance becometh the aged. Read few novels, but 
let those thou readest be of the best, as, Broken to Har- 
ness, The Silver Cord, An Artist'' s Proof, and Blount 
Tempest. Likewise, begin to dress less jauntily, and wear 
a high waistcoat Hke the Right Reverend Bellew, and the 
Right Reverend Brooks's. 

When thou goest to the Academy dinner, avoid, so far 
as thou canst, the taking too much wine, for what thing is 
less dignified than a swipey Grandfather ? 

Cherish these counsels in the apple of thine eye, and in 
the pineapple of thy rum ; and be thankful that at a time 
of life when other young men may not ungracefully in- 
dulge in youthful levity, thou art called to a higher and a 
graver sphere. 

Buy a stick, and practise walking with it, bending thy 
back, and not perking up elegantly when a comely female 
passeth by. 

Have grave men to thy feasts, notably him who ex- 
9 



Sarah Ann Dunn 

pecteth the interview with Mrs. Cottle, and to suffer 
as he never suffered before. So I greet thee, Grand- 
father, and hope that thou wilt have many grandsons and 
granddaughters, and wilt ask me to the christening of 
them all. S. B. 



A mother informs the Controller of the London 
" Guild of Play " of the good it has done to 
Sarah Ann ^^:i^ ^:> ^^ ^:> ^^^ 

DERE AND HONERABLE MAAM, — I make so 
bold aster arsk if there can be a Guild of Play at 
every skule this winter, as I gets more work out of our 
Sarah Ann now she goes to that ther one of yours than 
ever I did afore. Her head's full of fairies, and sich like 
truck, but it makes her twice the gal she was, and she 
was anything but a hangel I kin tell yer, but if yer can 
turn er inside out like that with an hour a week I wishes 
as ow all the children could ave it too. — From yours 
obliging, Mrs. Dunn 

Thomas Hayley (aged twelve) points out defects in 
William Cowper's translation of Homer ^^^ 

Eartham, March 4, 1793 

HONORED KING OF BARDS, — Since you deign 
to demand the observations of an humble and 
unexperienced servant of yours, on a work of one who is 
so much his superior (as he is ever ready to serve you 
with all his might) behold what you demand ! but let 
me desire you not to censure me for my unskilful and 
perhaps (as they will undoubtedly appear to you) ridicu- 
le 



An Exacting Twelve-Year-Old 

lous observations ; but be so kind as to receive them as 
a mark of respectful affection from your obedient servant, 

Thomas Hayley 

Book. Line. 

I. 184. I cannot reconcile myself to these ex- 

pressions, " Ah, cloth'd with impu- 
dence, etc."; and 195, "Shameless 
wolf"; and 126, "Face of flint." 

I. 508. "Dishonored foul," is, in my opinion, 

an uncleanly expression. 

I. 651. "ReePd," I think makes it appear as 

if Olympus was drunk. 

I. 749. " Kindler of the fires in Heaven," I 

think makes Jupiter appear too 
much like a lamplighter. 
II. 317-319. These lines are, in my opinion, below 
the elevated genius of Mr. Cowper. 
XVIII. 300-304. This appears to me to be rather 
Irish, since in line 300 you say, 
"No one sat," and in 304, "Poly- 
damas rose.*" 

The Guilty Poet replies ^^^:> ^:> ^=^ ^^^ 

Weston, March 14, 1793 
"Y DEAR LITTLE CRITIC, — I thank you heartily 



M' 



for your observations, on which I set an higher 
value, because they have instructed me as much, and 
have entertained me more, than all the other strictures 
of our public judges in these matters. Perhaps I am 
not much more pleased with shaineless wolf, etc., than 
you. But what is to be done, my little man? Coarse 
II 



A Humble Poet 

as the expressions are, they are no more than equivalent 
to those of Homer. The invective of the ancients was 
never tempered with good manners, as your papa can 
tell you ! and my business, you know, is not to be more 
polite than my author, but to represent him as closely as 
I can. 

Dishonored foul I have wiped away, for the reason you 
give, which is a very just one, and the present reading is 
this — 

Who had dared dishonor thus 
The life itself, etc. 

Your objection to kmdler of the fires of heavett, I had 
the good fortune to anticipate, and expunged the dirty 
ambiguity some time since, wondering, not a little, that I 
had ever admitted it. 

The fault you find with the two first verses of Nestor's 
speech, discovers such a degree of just discernment, that 
but for your papa's assurance to the contrary, I must have 
suspected hhn as the author of that remark : much as I 
should have respected it, if it had been so, I value it, I 
assure you, my little friend, still more as yours. In the new 
edition the passage will be found thus altered — 

Alas ! great sorrow falls on Greece to-day, 
Priam, and Priam's sons, with all in Troy. 
Oh ! how will they exult, and in their hearts 
Triumph, once hearing of this broil between 
The prime of Greece, in council, and in arms. 

Where the word reel suggests to you the idea of a 
drunken mountain, it performs the service to which I 
destined it. It is a bold metaphor; but justified by 
one of the sublimest passages in Scripture, compared 
with the sublimity of which even that of Homer suffers 
humiliation. 

12 



" Olympus shall be tipsy '* 

It is God himself who, speaking, I think, by the 
prophet Isaiah, says — 

" The earth shall reel to and fro like a drunkard." 

With equal boldness in the same scripture, the poetry 
of which was never equalled, mountains are said to skip, 
to break out into singing, and the fields to clap their 
hands. 1 intend, therefore, that my Olympus shall be 
tipsy. 

The accuracy of your last remark, in which you con- 
victed me of a bull, delights me. A fig for all critics but 
you! The blockheads could not find it. It shall stand 
thus — 

First spake Polydamas 

Homer was more upon his guard than to commit such 
a blunder, for he says — 

" 'r]pX ay opeveii/." 

And now, my dear little censor, once more accept my 
thanks. I only regret that your strictures are so few, 
being just and sensible as they are. 

Tell your papa that he shall hear from me soon ; 
accept mine, and my dear invalid's affectionate remem- 
brances. — Ever yours, W. C. 

Thomas Babington Macaulay (aged fourteen) keeps 
Mrs. Hannah More (aged seventy) informed of 
what is going on ^^ ^:> ^> ^^ 

Clapham, Ja7iuary i6, 1815 

MY DEAR MADAM, — My mamma was on the point 
of writing to inform you that a supposed favour- 
able alteration has taken place in Mr. Henry Thornton's 
13 



The Poets in 1815 

case. His physicians are still sanguine in their expecta- 
tions ; but his friends, who examine his disorder by the 
rules of common sense, and not by those of medicine, are 
very weak in their hopes. The warm bath has been 
prescribed ; and it is the wish and prayer of all who know 
him that so excellent and valuable a character may be 
preserved to the world. 

You will believe, my dear madam, that no one rejoices 
more than I do at your recovery from the effects of the 
fatal accident which threatened us. Events like these 
prove to us the strength of our affection for our friends, — 
shew the esteem in which great characters are held by 
the world. 

We are eagerly expecting the promised essay, which 
will indeed be a most important addition to the literary 
history of the year eighteen hundred and fifteen, ample 
as that already is. Every eminent writer of poetry, good 
or bad, has been publishing within the last month, or is 
to publish shortly. Lord Byron's pen is at work over a 
poem as yet nameless. Lucien Buonaparte has given 
the world his Charleinagne . Scott has published his 
Lord of the Isles, in six cantos, a beautiful and elegant 
poem ; and Southey his Roderick, the last of the Goths. 
Wordsworth has printed The Exxiirsion (a ponderous 
quarto of five hundred pages), '■^ being a portion of the 
intended poem entitled The Recluse." What the length 
of this intended poem is to be, as the Grand Vizier said 
of the Turkish poet, " N'est connu qu'a Dieu et k M. 
Wordsworth." This forerunner, however, is, to say no 
more, almost as long as it is dull ; not but that there are 
many striking and beautiful passages interspersed ; but 
who would wade through a poem 

" where, perhaps, one beauty shines 

In the dry desert of a thousand lines ? " 

14 



Poetry at every Meal 

To add to the list, my dear madam, you will soon see a 
work of mine in print. Do not be frightened ! it is only the 
index to the thirteenth volume of the Christian Observer, 
which I have had the honour of composing. Index- 
making, though the lowest, is not the most useless round 
in the ladder of literature ; and I pride myself upon 
being able to say that there are many readers of the 
Christiaji Observer who could do without Walter Scott's 
works, but not without those of, my dear Madam, your 
affectionate friend, Thomas B. Macaulay 

P.S. — Give my love to your sisters, if you please, and 
to my Aunt Thatcher, if still with you. My mamma has 
just now received her letter. 

Hannah More informs Zachary Macaulay, Esq., of the 
metital progress of his son ^^:^ ^^ ^^:^ 

Barley Wood,////^ 21, 181 5 (?) 

MY DEAR SIR, — I wanted Tom to write to-day, 
but as he is likely to be much engaged with a 
favourite friend, and I shall have no time to-morrow, I 
scribble a line. This friend is a sensible youth at 
Woolwich : he is qualifying for the artillery. I overheard 
a debate between them on the comparative merits of 
Eugene and Marlborough as generals. The quantity 
of reading that Tom has poured in, and the quantity of 
writing he has poured out, is astonishing. It is in vain 
I have tried to make him subscribe to Sir Henry Savile's 
notion, that the poets are the best writers next to those 
who write prose. We have poetry for breakfast, dinner, 
and supper. He recited all " Palestine," while we break- 
fasted, to our pious friend Mr. Whalley, at my desire, and 
did it incomparably. 

IS 



Young Shoulders 

I was pleased with his dehcacy in one thing. You 
know the Italian poets, like the French, too much indulge 
in the profane habit of attesting the Supreme Being ; but, 
without any hint from me, whenever he comes to the 
Sacred Name, he reverently passes it over. I sometimes 
fancy I observe a daily progress in the growth of his 
mental powers. His fine promise of mind expands more 
and more, and, what is extraordinary, he has as much 
accuracy in his expression as spirit and vivacity in his 
imagination. I like, too, that he takes a lively interest 
in all passing events, and that the child is still preserved ; 
I like to see him boyish as he is studious, and that he is 
as much amused with making a pat of butter as a poem. 
Though loquacious, he is very docile, and I don't re- 
^member a single instance in which he has persisted in 
doing anything when he saw we did not approve it. 
Several men of sense and learning have been struck with 
the union of gaiety and rationality in his conversation. 

It was a pretty trait of him yesterday : being invited 
to dine abroad, he hesitated and then said, " No ; I have 
so few days that I will give them all to you." And he 
said to-day at dinner, when speaking of his journey, 
''I know not whether to think on my journey with most" 
pain or pleasure — with most kindness for my friends, 
or affection for my parents." Sometimes we converse 
in ballad-rhymes, sometimes in Johnsonian sesqui- 
pedalians ; at tea, we condescend to riddles and charades. 
He rises early, and walks an hour or two before break- 
fast, generally composing verses. I encourage him to 
live much in the open air; this, with great exercise on 
these airy summits, I hope, will invigorate his body; 
though his frail body is sometimes tired, the spirits are 
never exhausted. He is, however, not sorry to be sent 
to bed soon after nine, and seldom stays to our supper. 
i6 



A Long Parenthesis 

A new poem is produced less incorrect than its pre- 
decessors — it is an excellent satire on radical reform, 
under the title of " Clodpole and the Quack Doctor.'" 
It is really good. I am glad to see that they are thrown 
by as soon as they have been once read, and he thinks 
no more of them. He has very quick perceptions of the 
beautiful and defective in^ composition. I received your 
note last night, and Tom his humbling one. I tell him 
he is incorrigible in the way of tidiness. The other 
day, talking of what were the symptoms of a gentleman, 
he said, with some humour, and much ^.s'^^^-humour, that 
he had certain infallible marks of one ; which were, 
neatness, love of cleanliness, and delicacy in his person. 
I know not when I have written so long a scrawl ; but I 
thought you and his good mother would feel an interest 
in any trifles which related to him. I hope it will please 
God to prosper his journey, and restore him in safety to 
you. Let us hear of his arrival. — Yours, my dear sir, 
very sincerely, H. More 

P.S. — To-morrow we go to Bristol. 



Lewis Carroll writes to three of his little girl friends 

I 

Christ Church, Oxford, Marc/i 8, 1880 

MY DEAR ADA— (Isn't that your short name? 
" Adelaide " is all very well, but you see when 
one is dreadfully busy one hasn't time to write such 
long words — particularly when it takes one half-hour to 
remember how to spell it — and even then one has to go 
and get a dictionary to see if one has spelt it right, and 
of course the dictionary is in another room, at the top of 
c 17 



The Three Cats 

a high bookcase — where it has been for months and 
months — and has got all covered with dust. So one has 
to get a duster first of all, and nearly choke oneself in 
dusting it — and when one has made out at last which is 
dictionary and which is dust, even then there is the job of 
remembering which end of the alphabet " A " comes — for 
one feels pretty certain it isn't in the middle — then one 
has to go and wash one's hands before turning over the 
leaves — for they've got so thick with dust, one hardly 
knows them by sight — and, as likely as not, the soap is 
lost, and the jug is empty, and there's no towel, and one 
has to spend hours and hours in finding things — and 
perhaps after all, one has to go off to the shop to buy 
a new cake of soap. So, with all this bother, I hope you 
won't mind my writing it short and saying, " My dear 
Ada "), — You said in your letter you would like a likeness 
of me : so here it is, and I hope you will like it. I won't 
forget to call the next time but one I'm in Wallington. 
— Your very affectionate friend, Lewis Carroll 

II 

[No date] 

MY DEAR AGNES, — You lazy thing! What? I'm 
to divide the kisses, am I ? Indeed I won't take 
the trouble to do anything of the sort ! But I'll tell you 
how to do it. First you must take four of the kisses, 
and — and that reminds me of a very curious thing 
that happened to me at half-past four yesterday. Three 
visitors came knocking at my door, begging me to let 
them in. And when I opened the door, who do you 
think they were ? You'll never guess ; why, they were 
three cats ! Wasn't it curious ? However, they all 
looked so cross and disagreeable that I took up the first 
i8 



Drinking Health 

thing I could lay my hand on (which happened to be the 
rolling-pin) and knocked them all down as flat as pan- 
cakes ! " If yoii come knocking at 7ny door," I said, 
" I shall come knocking at your heads." That was fair, 
wasn't it ? — Yours affectionately, Lewis Carroll 

III 

Christ Church, Oxford, October 13, 1875 

MY DEAR GERTRUDE, — I never give birthday 
presents^ but you see I do sometimes write a 
birthday letter : so, as Tve just arrived here, I am writing 
this to wish you many and many a happy return of your 
birthday to-morrow. I will drink your health if only I can 
remember, and if you don"'t mind — but perhaps you object ? 

You see, if I were to sit by you at breakfast, and to 
drink your tea, you wouldn't like that, would you ? You 
would say, " Boo ! hoo ! Here's Mr. Dodgson drunk all 
my tea, and I haven't got any left ! " So I am very much 
afraid, next time Sybil looks for you, she'll find you sitting 
by the sad sea- waves and crying " Boo ! hoo ! Here's Mr. 
Dodgson has drunk my health, and I haven't got any left ! " 

And how it will puzzle Mr. Maund, when he is sent for 
to see you ! " My dear madam, I'm sorry to say your 
little girl has got no health at all ! I never saw such a 
thing in my life !" "You see she would go and make 
friends with a strange gentleman, and yesterday he drank 
her health ! " '' Well, Mrs. Chataway," he will say, " the 
only way to cure her is to wait till his next birthday, and 
then for her to drink his health." 

And then we shall have changed healths. I wonder 
how you'll like mine ! Oh, Gertrude, I wish you would 
not talk such nonsense ! . . . Your loving friend, 

Lewis Carroll 
19 



" That she-Aristotle Mary " 
Charles Lamb entertains a poet's son ^^^ ^Qy 

P.M. Nove7nber 25, 18 19 

DEAR MISS WORDSWORTH, — You will think me 
negligent, but I wanted to see more of Willy, 
before I ventured to express a prediction. Till yester- 
day I had barely seen him — Virgilmm Taiitiim Vidi — 
but yesterday he gave us his small company to a bullock's 
heart — and I can pronounce him a lad of promise. He 
is no pedant nor bookworm, so far I can answer. Perhaps 
he has hitherto paid too little attention to other men's 
inventions, preferring, like Lord Foppington, the "natural 
sprouts of his own." But he has observation, and seems 
thoroughly awake. I am ill at remembering other people's 
bon mots, but the following are a few. Being taken over 
Waterloo Bridge, he remarked that if we had no moun- 
tains, we had a fine river at least, which was a Touch of 
the Comparative, but then he added, in a strain which 
augured less for his future abilities as a Political Econo- 
mist, that he supposed they must take at least a pound a 
week Toll. Like a curious naturalist he inquired if the 
tide did not come up a little salty. This being satisfac- 
torily answered, he put another question as to the flux 
and reflux, which being rather cunningly evaded than 
artfully solved by that she- Aristotle Mary, who muttered 
something about its getting up an hour sooner and sooner 
every day, he sagely replied, " Then it must come to the 
same thing at last," which was a speech worthy of an 
infant Halley ! The Lion in the 'Change by no means 
came up to his ideal standard. So impossible it is for 
Nature in any of her works to come up to the standard 
of a child's imagination. The whelps (Lionets) he was 
sorry to find were dead, and on particular inquiry his 
old friend the Ouran Outang had gone the way of all 
20 



" I cannot hit that beast " 

flesh also. The grand Tiger was also sick, and expected 
in no short time to exchange this transitory world for 
another — or none. But again, there was a Golden Eagle 
(I do not mean that of Charing) which did much arride 
and console him. William's genius, I take it, leans a 
little to the figurative, for being at play at Tricktrack 
(a kind of minor Billiard-table which we keep for smaller 
wights, and sometimes refresh our own mature fatigues 
with taking a hand at) not being able to hit a ball he 
had iterate aimed at, he cried out, " I cannot hit that 
beast." Now the balls are usually called men, but he 
felicitously hit upon a middle term, a term of approxima- 
tion and imaginative reconciliation, a something where 
the two ends, of the brute matter (ivory) and their human 
and rather violent personification into inen^ might meet, 
as I take it, illustrative of that Excellent remark in a 
certain Preface about Imagination, explaining " like a 
sea-beast that had crawled forth to sun himself." Not 
that I accuse WiUiam Minor of hereditary plagiary, or 
conceive the image to have come ex traduce. Rather he 
seemeth to keep aloof from any source of imitation, and 
purposely to remain ignorant of what mighty poets have 
done in this kind before him. For, being asked if his 
father had ever been on Westminster Bridge, he answered 
that he did not know. 

It is hard to discern the Oak in the Acorn, or a Temple 
like St. Paul's in the first stone which is laid, nor can I 
quite prefigure what destination the genius of William 
Minor hath to take. Some few hints I have set down, 
to guide my future observations. He hath the power of 
calculation in no ordinary degree for a chit. He com- 
bineth figures, after the first boggle, rapidly. As in the 
Tricktrack board, where the hits are figured, at first he 
did not perceive that 15 and 7 made 22, but by a little 
21 



A Lake Poet's Son 

use he could combine 8 with 25 — and 33 again with 16, 
which approacheth something in kind (far let me be from 
flattering him by saying in degree) to that of the famous 
American boy. I am sometimes inclined to think I 
perceive the future satirist in him, for he hath a sub- 
sardonic smile which bursteth out upon occasion, as 
when he was asked if London were as big as Ambleside, 
and indeed no other answer was given, or proper to be 
given, to so ensnaring and provoking a question. In 
the contour of scull certainly I discern something 
paternal. But whether in all respects the future man 
shall transcend his father's fame. Time, the trier of 
geniuses, must decide. Be it pronounced peremptorily 
at present, that Willy is a well-mannerM child, and 
though no great student, hath yet a lively eye for 
things that lie before him. Given in haste from my 
desk at Leadenhall. Your's and yours' most sincerely, 

C. Lamb 

Shelley visits Allegra in the convent ^^:> ^^^ ^^^ 
(To Mrs. Shelley) 

Ravenna, August 15, 1821 

I WENT the other day to see Allegra at her convent, 
and stayed with her about three hours. She is grown 
tall and slight for her age, and her face is somewhat 
altered. The traits have become more delicate, and she 
is much paler, probably from the effect of improper food. 
She yet retains the beauty of her deep blue eyes and of 
her mouth, but she has a contemplative seriousness 
which, mixed with her excessive vivacity, which has not 
yet deserted her, has a very peculiar effect in a child. 
She is under very strict discipline, as may be observed 
22 



Another Poet's Daughter 

from the immediate obedience she accords to the will 
of her attendants. This seems contrary to her nature, 
but I do not think it has been obtained at the expense 
of much severity. Her hair, scarcely darker than it was, 
is beautifully profuse, and hangs in large curls on her 
neck. She was prettily dressed in white muslin, and an 
apron of black silk, with trousers. Her light and airy 
figure and her graceful motions were a striking contrast 
to the other children there. She seemed a thing of a 
finer and a higher order. At first she was very shy, but 
after a little caressing, and especially after I had given 
her a gold chain which I had bought at Ravenna for her, 
she grew more familiar, and led me all over the garden, 
and all over the convent, running and skipping so fast 
that I could hardly keep up with her. She showed me 
her little bed, and the chair where she sat at dinner, and 
the carozzina in which she and her favourite companions 
drew each other along a walk in the garden. I had 
brought her a basket of sweetmeats, and before eating 
any of them she gave her companions and each of the 
nuns a portion. This is not much like the old Allegra. 
I asked her what I should say from her to her mamma, 
and she said : 

" Che mi manda un bacio e un bel vestituro." 

" E come vuoi il vestituro sia fatto .'' " 

" Tutto di seta e d'oro,*' was her reply. 

Her predominant foible seems the love of distinction 
and vanity, and this is a plant which produces good or 
evil, according to the gardener's skill. I then asked her 
what I should say to papa? "Che venga farmi un visitino 
e che porta seco la mammifiay Before I went away she 
made me run all over the convent, like a mad thing. 
The nuns, who were half in bed, were ordered to hide 
themselves, and on returning Allegra began ringing the 
23 



Allegra's Scappature 



bell which calls the nuns to assemble. The tocsin of 
the convent sounded, and it required all the efforts of the 
Prioress to prevent the spouses of God from rendering 
themselves, dressed or undressed, to the accustomed 
signal. Nobody scolded her for these scappature^ so I 
suppose she is well treated, so far as temper is concerned. 
Her intellect is not much cultivated. She knows certain 
oraziofii by heart, and talks and dreams of Paradiso and 
all sorts of things, and has a prodigious list of saints, 
and is always talking of the Bambino. This will do 
her no harm, but the idea of bringing up so sweet a 
creature in the midst of such trash till sixteen ! 



24 



II 

THE NEWS BEARERS 

Charles Dickens employs the pen of Boswell '^^ 

(To Wilkie Collins) 

Lord Warden Hotel, Dover 

Friday Evenings May 24, 1861 

MY DEAR WILKIE, — I am delighted to receive so 
good an account of last night, and have no doubt 
that it was a thorough success. Now it is over, I may 
honestly say that I am glad you were (by your friendship) 
forced into the Innings, for there is no doubt that it is of 
immense importance to a public man in our way to have 
his wits at his tongue's end. Sir (as Dr. Johnson would 
have said), if it be not irrational in a man to count his 
feathered bipeds before they are hatched, we will con- 
jointly astonish them next year. Boswell: Sir, I hardly 
understand you. Johnson : Sir, you never understand 
anything. Boswell (in a sprightly manner) : Perhaps, 
Sir, I am all the better for it. Johnson (savagely) : Sir, 
I do not know but that you are. There is Lord Carlisle 
(smiling) ; he never understands anything, and yet the dog's 
well enough. Then, Sir, there is Forster; he understands 
25 



Swift in Town 

many things, and yet the fellow is fretful. Again, Sir, 
there is Dickens, with a facile way with him — Hke Davy, 
Sir, like Davy — yet I am told that the man is lying at a 
hedge ale-house by the sea-shore in Kent, as long as 
they will trust him. Boswell'. But there are no hedges 
by the sea in Kent, Sir. Johnson: And why not, Sir? 

Boswell (at a loss): I donH know, Sir, unless Johnson 

(thundering) : Let us have no unlesses. Sir. If your father 
had never said "unless," he would never have begotten 
you. Sir. Boswell (yielding) : Sir, that is very true. 

The Dean tells Stella all -^r:^ "^ •<:b. <^ 

October 14, 1710 

IS that tobacco at the top of the paper, or what? I do 
not remember I slobbered. Lord, I dreamed of 
Stella, etc., so confusedly last night, and that we saw 
Dean Bolton and Sterne go into a shop ; and she bid me 
call [them] to her, and they proved to be two parsons I 
knew not ; and I walked without till she was shifting, and 
such stuff, mixed with much melancholy and uneasiness, 
and things not as they should be, and I know not how: 
and it is now an ugly gloomy morning. — At night. Mr. 
Addison and I dined with Ned Southwell, and walked in 
the Park; and at the Coffeehouse I found a letter from 
the Bishop of Clogher, and a packet from MD. I 
opened the bishop's letter; but put up MD.'s and 
visited a lady just come to town, and am now got into 
bed, and going to open your little letter : and God send 
I may find MD. well, and happy, and merry, and that 
they love Presto as they do fires. O, I will not open it 
yet ! yes I will ! no I will not ! I am going ; I cannot 
stay till I turn over : what shall I do ? My fingers itch : 
and I now have it in my left hand ; and now I will open it 
26 



" Directed to Mr. Addison " 

this very moment. I have just got it. and am cracking the 
seal, and cannot imagine what is in it ; I fear only some 
letter from a bishop, and it comes too late : I shall employ 

nobody's credit but my own. Well, I see though 

Pshaw, it is from Sir Andrew Fountaine: what, another ! 
I fancy that is from Mrs. Barton ; she told me she w'ould 
write to me ; but she writes a better hand than this : I wish 
you would inquire ; it must be at Dawson's office at the 
Castle. I fear this is from Patty Rolt, by the scrawl. Well, 
I will read MD.'s letter. Ah no ; it is from poor Lady 
Berkeley, to invite me to Berkeley Castle this winter ; and 
now it grieves my heart : she says she hopes my lord 
is in a fair way of recovery : poor lady. Well, now I 
go to MD.'s letter: faith, it is all right; I hoped it was 
wrong. Your letter, N. 3, that I have now received, is dated 
Sep. 26, and Manley's letter, that I had five days 
ago, was dated Oct. 3, that is a fortnight's difference : 
I doubt it has lain in Steele's office, and he forgot. Well, 
there is an end of that : he is turned out of his place ; 
and you must desire those who send me packets, to 
enclose them in a paper, directed to Mr. Addison, at 
St. James' Coffeehouse : not common letters, but packets : 
the Bishop of Clogher may mention it to the Archbishop 
when he sees him. As for your letter, it makes me mad : 
flidikins, I have been the best boy in Christendom, and 
you come with your two eggs a-penny. — Well : but stay, I 
will look over my book : adad, I think there was a chasm 
between my N. 2 and N. 3. Faith, I will not promise to 
write to you every week ; but I will write every night, and 
when it is full I will send it ; that will be once in ten days, 
and that will be often enough ; and if you only begin to 
take up the way of writing to Presto, only because it is 
Tuesday, [or] Monday bedad, it will grow a task ; but 
write when you have a mind — no, no, no, no, no, no, no, 
27 



"To dine at Mr. Harley's" 

no, — agad, agad, agad, agad, agad, agad ; no poor 
Stellakins. Slids, I would the horse were in your — 
chamber. Have I not ordered Parvisol to obey your 
directions about him? and have not I said in my former 
letters, that you may pickle him, and boil him if you will? 
What do you trouble me about your horses for? Have 
I anything to do with them! Revolutions a hindrance to 
me in my business; revolutions — to me in my business? 
if it were not for the revolutions I could do nothing at all ; 
and now I have all hopes possible, though one is certain 
of nothing ; but to-morrow I am to have an answer, and 
am promised an effectual one. I suppose I have said 
enough in this and a former letter how I stand with new 
people ; ten times better than ever I did with the old ; 
forty times more caressed. I am to dine to-morrow at 
Mr. Harley's ; and if he continues as he has begun, no 
man has ever been better treated by another. 

What you say about Stella's mother, I have spoken 
enough to it already. I believe she is not in town, for I 
have not yet seen her. My lampoon is cried up to the 
skies ; but nobody suspects me for it, except Sir Andrew 
Fountaine ; at least they say nothing of it to me. Did I 
not tell you of a great man who received me very coldly? 
that is he, but say nothing ; it was only a little revenge : 
I will remember to bring it over. The Bishop of Clogher 
has smoked my Tatler, about shortening of words, etc. 
But, God so ! etc. 

Charles Dickens narrates a dream ^^^ ^^ ^:::> 

Broadstairs, Kent, September i, 1843 

MY DEAR FELTON, — If I thought it in the nature 
of things that you and I could ever agree on 
paper, touching a certain Chuzzlewitian question where- 
28 



" Imaginary Butchers and Bakers " 

upon Forster tells me you have remarks to make, I should 
immediately walk into the same, tooth and nail. But as 
I don't, I won't. Contenting myself with the prediction, 
that one of these years and days, you will write or say to 
me : " My dear Dickens, you were right, though rough, 
and did a world of good, though you got most thoroughly 
hated for it." To which I shall reply: " My dear Felton, 
I looked a long way off and not immediately under my 
nose.'" ... At which sentiment you will laugh, and I 
shall laugh ; and then (for I foresee this will all happen 
in my land) we shall call for another pot of porter and 
two or three dozens of oysters. 

Now, don't you in your own heart and soul quarrel 
with me for this long silence ? 

Not half so much as I quarrel with myself, I know; 
but if you could read half the letters I write to you in 
imagination, you would swear by me for the best of 
correspondents. The truth is, that when I have done 
my morning's work, down goes my pen, and from that 
minute I feel it a positive impossibility to take it up again, 
until imaginary butchers and bakers wave me to my desk. 
I walk about brimful of letters, facetious descriptions, 
touching morsels, and pathetic friendships, but can't for 
the soul of me uncork myself. The post-office is my rock 
ahead. My average number of letters that must be 
written every day is, at the least, a dozen. And you 
could no more know what I was writing to you spiritually, 
from the perusal of the bodily thirteenth, than you could 
tell from my hat what was going on in my head, or could 
read my heart on the surface of my flannel waistcoat. 

This is a little fishing place ; intensely quiet ; built on a 

cliff, whereon — in the centre of a tiny semi-circular bay — 

our house stands ; the sea rolling and dashing under the 

windows. Seven miles out are the Goodwin Sands 

29 



Boz Day by Day 

(youVe heard of the Goodwin Sands ?) whence floating 
lights perpetually wink after dark, as if they were carry- 
ing on intrigues with the servants. Also there is a big 
lighthouse called the North Foreland on a hill behind 
the village, a severe parsonic light, which reproves the 
young and giddy floaters, and stares grimly out upon 
the sea. Under the cliff" are rare good sands, where all 
the children assemble every morning and throw up im- 
possible fortifications, which the sea throws down again 
at high water. Old gentlemen and ancient ladies flirt 
after their own manner in two reading-rooms and on a 
great many scattered seats in the open air. 

Other old gentlemen look all day through telescopes and 
never see anything. In a bay-window in a one-pair sits, 
from nine o''clock to one, a gentleman with rather long 
hair and no neck-cloth, who writes and grins as if he 
thought he were very funny indeed. His name is Boz. 
At one he disappears, and presently emerges from a 
bathing-machine, and may be seen — a kind of salmon- 
coloured porpoise — splashing about in the ocean. After 
that he may be seen in another bay-window on the 
ground floor, eating a strong lunch ; after that, walking 
a dozen miles or so, or lying on his back in the sand 
reading a book. Nobody bothers him unless they know 
he is disposed to be talked to; and I am told he is very 
comfortable indeed. He's as brown as a berry, and they 
do say is a small fortune to the innkeeper who sells beer 
and cold punch. But this is mere rumour. Sometimes 
he goes up to London (eighty miles, or so, away), and 
then Pm told there is a sound in Lincoln's Inn Fields 
at night, as of men laughing, together with a clinking of 
knives and forks and wine glasses. 

I never shall have been so near you since we parted 
aboard the George Washington as next Tuesday. Forster, 
30 



Maclise and Longfellow 

Maclise, and I, and perhaps Stanfield, are then going 
aboard the Cunard steamer at Liverpool, to bid Macready 
good-bye and bring his wife away. It will be a very 
hard parting. You will see and know him, of course. 
We gave him a splendid dinner last Saturday at 
Richmond, whereat I presided with my accustomed 
grace. He is one of the noblest fellows in the world, 
and I would give a great deal that you and I should sit 
beside each other to see him play Virginias, Lear, or 
Werner, which I take to be, every way, the greatest piece 
of exquisite perfection that his lofty art is capable of 
attaining. His Macbeth, especially the last act, is a 
tremendous reality ; but so indeed is almost everything 
he does. You recollect, perhaps, that he was the guardian 
of our children while we were away. I love him dearly. . . . 
You asked me, long ago, about Maclise. He is such a 
wayward fellow in his subjects, that it would be next to 
impossible to write such an article as you were thinking 
of about him. I wish you could form an idea of his 
genius. One of these days a book will come out, Moore's 
Irish Melodies^ entirely illustrated by him, on every page. 
When it comes, Fll send it to you. You will have some 
notion of him then. 

He is in great favour with the Queen, and paints secret 
pictures for her to put upon her husband's table on the 
morning of his birthday, and the like. But if he has a 
care, he will leave his mark on more enduring things 
than palace walls. 

And so Longfellow is married. I remember her well, 
and could draw her portrait, in words, to the life. A very 
beautiful and gentle creature, and a proper love for a 
poet. My cordial remembrances and congratulations. 
Do they live in the house where we breakfasted ? . . . 

I very often dream I am in America again; but, 
31 



Christened with a Toasting-Fork 

strange to say, I never dream of you. I am always 
endeavouring to get home in disguise, and have a 
dreary sense of distance. A propos of dreams, is it not 
a strange thing if vi^riters of fiction never dream of their 
own creations ; recollecting, I suppose, even in their 
dreams, that they have no real existence ? I never 
dream of any of my own characters, and I feel it so 
impossible that I would wager, Scott never did of his, 
real as they are. I had a good piece of absurdity in my 
head a night or two ago. I dreamed that somebody was 
dead. I don't know who, but if s not to the purpose. 
It was a private gentleman, or a particular friend ; and 
I was greatly overcome when the news was broken to me 
(very delicately) by a gentleman in a cocked hat, top 
boots, and a sheet. Nothing else. " Good God! '' I said, 
"is he dead?" "He is as dead, sir," rejoined the 
gentleman, " as a door-nail. But we must all die, Mr. 
Dickens, sooner or later, my dear sir." "' Ah ! " I said, 
"Yes, to be sure. Very true. But what did he die of?" 
The gentleman burst into a flood of tears, and said in a 
voice broken by emotion : " He christened his youngest 
child, Sir, with a toasting fork." I never in my life was so 
affected as at his having fallen a victim to this complaint. 
It carried a conviction to my mind that he never could 
have recovered. I knew that it was the most interesting 
and fatal malady in the world ; and I wrung the gentle- 
man's hand in a convulsion of respectful admiration, for 
I felt that this explanation did equal honour to his head 
and heart. 

What do you think of Mrs. Gamp? And how do you 
like the undertaker? I have a fancy that they are in 
your way. Oh heaven! such green woods as I was 
rambling among, down in Yorkshire, when I was getting 
that done last July! For days and weeks we never saw 
32 



Midnight Frolics 

the sky but through green boughs ; and all day long I 
cantered over such soft moss and turf, that the horse's 
feet scarcely made a sound upon it. We have some 
friends in that part of the country (close to Castle 
Howard, where Lord Morpeth's father dwells in state, 
/;/ his park indeed), who are the jolliest of the jolly, 
keeping a big old country house, with an ale-cellar some- 
thing larger than a reasonable church, and everything, 
like Goldsmith's bear, dances " in a concatenation accord- 
ingly." Just the place for you, Felton ! 

We performed some madnesses there in the way of 
forfeits, picnics, rustic games, inspections of ancient 
monasteries at midnight, when the moon was shining, 
that would have gone to your heart, and, as Mr. Weller 
says, " come out on the other side." . . . Write soon, my 
dear Felton ; and if I write to you less often than I would, 
believe that my affectionate heart is with you always. 
Love and regards to all friends, from yours ever and ever, 
very faithfully yours. 



Thackeray describes his Parisian adventures to Mrs. 
Brookfield ^;^ ^;^ ^^ ^> ^:> 

I WENT to see my old haunts when I came to Paris 13 
years ago, and made believe to be a pamter, — 
just after I was ruined and before I fell in love and took to 
marriage and writing. It was a very jolly time, I was as 
poor as Job and sketched away most abominably, but 
pretty contented ; and we used to meet in each other's 
little rooms and talk about art and smoke pipes and drink 
bad brandy and water — That awful habit still remams, 
but where is art, that dear mistress whom I loved, though 
in a very indolent, capricious manner, but with a real 
D 33 



The Venus of Milo 

sincerity ? I see her far, very far off. I jilted her, I 
know it very well; but you see it was Fate ordained that 
marriage should never take place ; and forced me to 
take on with another lady, two other ladies, three other 
ladies ; I mean the three and my wife, etc., etc. 

Well, you are very good to listen to all this egotistic 
prattle, chere Soeur, si douce et si bonne. 

I have no reason to be ashamed of my loves, seeing 
that all three are quite lawful. Did you go to see my 
people yesterday? Some day when his reverence is 
away, will you have the children? And not, if you please, 
be so vain as to fancy that you can't amuse them or that 
they will be bored in your home. They must and shall 
be fond of you, if you please. Alfred's open mouth as he 
looked at the broken bottle and spilt wine must have been 
a grand picture of agony. I couldn't find the lecture 
room at the Institute, so I went to the Louvre instead, 
and took a feast with the statues and pictures. The 
Venus de Milo is the grandest figure of figures. The 
wave of the lines of the figure, whenever seen, fills my 
senses with pleasure. What is it which so charms, 
satisfies one, in certain lines? O! the man who 
achieved that statue was a beautiful Genius. I have been 
sitting thinking of it these lo minutes in a delighted 
sensuous rumination. The colours of the Titian pictures 
comfort one's eyes similarly ; and after these feasts, 
which wouldn't please my lady very much, I daresay, 
being, I should think, too earthly for you, I went and looked 
at a picture I usedn't to care much for in old days, an 
angel saluting a Virgin and Child by Pietro Cortona, — a 
sweet smiling angel with a lily in her hands, looking so 
tender and gentle I wished that instant to make a copy 
of it, and do it beautifiilly, which I can't, and present it 
to somebody on Lady-day. There now, just fancy it is 
34 



"Pray God keep us simple" 

done, and prese?ited in a neat compliment, and hung up in 
your room — a pretty piece — dainty and devotional ? — I 

drove about with , and wondered at her more and more. 

— She is come to '' my dearest William " now : though 
she doesn't care a fig for me. She told me astonishing 
things, showed me a letter in which every word was true, 
and which was a fib from beginning to end ; — a Miracle 
of Deception ; — flattered, fondled and coaxed — O ! she 
was worth coming to Paris for! 

Pray God keep us simple. I have never looked at 

anything in my life which has so amazed me. Why, this 

is as good almost as if I had you to talk to. Let us go 
out and have another walk. 



Horace Walpole describes Madame du Deffand <:> 
(To George Montagu, Esq.) 

Paris, September 7, 1769 
Y dear old friend [Madame du Deffand] was 



M 



charmed with your mention of her, and made me 
vow to return you a thousand compliments. She cannot 
conceive why you will not step hither — feeling in herself 
no difference between the spirits of twenty-three and 
seventy-three, she thinks there is no impediment to doing 
whatever one will, but the want of eyesight. If she had 
that I am persuaded no consideration would prevent her 
making me a visit at Strawberry Hill. She makes songs 
sings them, remembers all that ever were made; and, 
having lived from the most agreeable to the most 
reasoning age, has all that was amiable in the last, all 
that is sensible in this, without the vanity of the 
former, or the pedant impertinence of the latter. I have 
35 



Madame du DefFand 

heard her dispute with all sorts of people, on all sorts of 
subjects, and never knew her in the wrong. She humbles 
the learned, sets right their disciples, and finds conversa- 
tion for everybody. Affectionate as Madame de Sevigne, 
she has none of her prejudices, but a more universal taste ; 
and, with the most delicate frame, her spirits hurry her 
through a life of fatigue that would kill me, if I was to 
continue here. If we return by one in the morning from 
suppers in the country, she proposes driving to the 
Boulevard, or to the Foire St. Ovide, because it is too 
early to go to bed. I had great difficulty last night to 
persuade her, though she was not well, not to sit up till 
between two and three for the Comet ; for which purpose 
she had appointed an astronomer to bring his telescopes 
to the President Renault's, as she thought it would 
amuse me. In short, her goodness to me is so excessive, 
that I feel unashamed at producing my withered person 
in a round of diversions, which I have quitted at home. 
I tell a story : I do feel ashamed, and sigh to be in my 
quiet castle and cottage ; but it costs me many a pang, 
when I reflect that I shall probably never have resolution 
enough to take another journey to see this best and 
sincerest of friends, who loves me as much as my mother 
did! but it is idle to look forward — what is next year? — 
a bubble that may burst for her or me, before even the 
flying year can hurry to the end of its almanack ! 

To form plans and projects in such a precarious life 
as this, resembles the enchanted castles of fairy legends, 
in which every gate was guarded by giants, dragons, etc. 
Death or diseases bar every portal through which we 
mean to pass ; and, though we may escape them and 
reach the last chamber, what a wild adventurer is he that 
centres his hopes at the end of such an avenue! I sit 
contented with the beggars at the threshold, and never pro- 
36 



Diverting the Angels 

pose going on, but as the gates open of themselves. 
The weather here is quite sultry, and I am sorry to say, 
one can send to the corner of the street and buy better 
peaches than all our expense in kitchen gardens produces. 
Lord and Lady Dacre are a few doors from me, having 
started from Tunbridge more suddenly than I did from 
Strawberry Hill, but on a more unpleasant motive. My 
lord was persuaded to come and try a new physician. His 
faith is greater than mine ! but, poor man ! can one 
wonder that he is willing to believe ? My lady has stood 
her shock, and I do not doubt will get over it. 

Adieu, my t'other dear old friend ! I am sorry to say, 
I see you almost as seldom as I do Madame du Deffand. 
However it is comfortable to reflect that we have not 
changed to each other for some five-and-thirty years, and 
neither you nor I haggle about naming so ancient a term, 
I made a visit yesterday to the Abbess of Panthemont, 
General Ogelthorpe's niece, and no chicken. I inquired 
after her mother, Madame de Mezieres, and thought I 
might, to a spiritual votary to immortality, venture to say 
that her mother must be very old ; she interrupted me 
tartly, and said, no, her mother had been married extremely 
young. Do but think of it seeming important to a saint 
to sink a wrinkle of her own through an iron grate ! 
Oh ! we are ridiculous animals ; and if angels have any 
fun in them, how we must divert them. 

Charles Lamb sends news to China ^^ ^^ ^^ 

January 2, 18 10 
Mary sends her love. 

DEAR MANNING, — When I last wrote to you, I was 
in lodgings. I am now in chambers, No. 4, Inner 
Temple Lane, where I should be happy to see you any 



Lamb in the Temple 

evening. Bring any of your friends, the Mandarins, witli 
you. I have two sitting-rooms : I call them so par ex- 
cellence^ for you may stand, or loll, or lean, or try any 
posture in them ; but they are best for sitting ; not 
squatting down Japanese fashion, but the more decorous 
use of the posteriors which European usage has con- 
secrated. I have two of these rooms on the third floor, 
and five sleeping, cooking, etc., rooms, on the fourth 
floor. In my best room is a choice collection of the 
works of Hogarth, an English painter of some humour. 
In my next best are shelves containing a small but 
well-chosen library. My best room commands a 
court, in which there are trees and a pump, the water 
of which is excellent — cold with brandy, and not very 
insipid without. Here I hope to set up my rest, and 
not quit till Mr. Powell, the undertaker, gives me 
notice that I may have possession of my last lodging. 
He lets lodgings for single gentlemen. I sent you a 
parcel of books by my last, to give you some idea of 
the state of European literature. There comes with 
this two volumes, done up as letters, of minor poetry, 
a sequel to Mrs. Leicester \ the best you may suppose 
mine ; the next best are my coadjutor's ; you may amuse 
yourself in guessing them out ; but I must tell you mine 
are but one-third in quantity of the whole. So much 
for a very delicate subject. It is hard to speak of one's 
self, etc. Holcroft had finished his life when I wrote to 
you, and Hazlitt has since finished his life — I do not mean 
his own life, but he has finished a life of Holcroft, which 
is going to press. Tuthill is Dr. Tuthill. I continue 
Mr. Lamb. I have published a little book for children 
on titles of honour: and to give them some idea of 
the difference of rank and gradual rising, I have made 
a little scale, supposing myself to receive the following 
38 



Degrees of Honour 

various accessions of dignity from the king, who is the 
fountain of honour — As at first, i, Mr. C. Lamb; 2, 
C. Lamb, Esq. ; 3, Sir C. Lamb, Bart. ; 4, Baron Lamb 
of Stamford ; ^ 5, Viscount Lamb ; 6, Earl Lamb ; 7, 
Marquis Lamb ; 8, Duke Lamb. It would look like 
quibbling to carry it on further, and especially as it is 
not necessary for children to go beyond the ordinary 
titles of sub-regal dignity in our own country, otherwise 
I have sometimes in my dreams imagined myself still 
advancing, as 9th, King Lamb; loth. Emperor Lamb; 
nth, Pope Innocent, higher than which is nothing but 
the Lamb of God. Puns I have not made many (nor 
punch much), since the date of my last; one I cannot 
help relating. A constable in Salisbury Cathedral was 
telling me that eight people dined at the top of the 
spire of the cathedral ; upon which I remarked, that 
they must be very sharp-set. But in general I culti- 
vate the reasoning part of my mind more than the 
imaginative. Do you know Kate *********. 
I am stuffed out so with eating turkey for dinner, 
and another turkey for supper yesterday (turkey in 
Europe and turkey in Asia), that I can't jog on. It 
is New-Year here. That is, it was New-Year half 
a-year back, when I was wTiting this. Nothing 
puzzles me more than time and space, and yet nothing 
puzzles me less, for I never think about them. The 
Persian ambassador is the principal thing talked of 
now. I sent some people to see him worship the sun 
on Primrose Hill at half past six in the morning, 
28th November; but he did not come, which makes 
me think the old fire-worshippers are a sect almost 
extinct in Persia. Have you trampled on the Cross 
1 Where my family come from. I have chosen that if ever I 
should have my choice. 

39 



Jew, Gentleman, and Angel 

yet ? The Persian ambassador's name is Shaw All 
Mirza. The common people call him Shaw Nonsense. 
While I think of it, I have put three letters besides 
my own three into the Indian post for you, from your 
brother, sister, and some gentleman whose name I 
forget. Will they, have they, did they, come safe? 
The distance you are at, cuts up tenses by the root. 
I think you said you did not know Kate *********. 
I express her by nine stars, though she is but one, but 

if ever one star differed from another in glory . 

You must have seen her at her father's. Try and 
remember her. Coleridge is bringing out a paper in 
weekly numbers, called the Friend^ which I would send, 
if I could ; but the difficulty I had in getting the packets 
of books out to you before deters me ; and you'll want 
something new to read when you come home. It is 
chiefly intended to puff off Wordsworth's poetry ; but 
there are some noble things in it by the by. Except 
Kate, I have had no vision of excellence this year, and 
she passed by like the queen on her coronation day; 
you don't know whether you saw her or not. Kate is 
fifteen: I go about moping, and sing the old pathetic 
ballad I used to like in my youth — 

" She's sweet Fifteen, 
I'm one year tnore." 

Mrs. Bland sung it in boy's clothes the first time I 
heard it. I sometimes think the lower notes in my voice 
are like Mrs. Bland's. That glorious singer Braham, 
one of my lights, is fled. He was for a season. He 
was a rare composition of the Jew, the gentleman, and 
the angel, yet all these elements mixed up so kindly in 
him, that you could not tell which predominated ; but 
he is gone, and one Phillips is engaged instead. Kate 
40 



Jokes and Friends 

is vanished, but Miss B******is always to be 
met with ! 

" Queens drop away, while blue-legg'd Maukin thrives ; 
And courtly Mildred dies, while country Madge survives." 

That is not my poetry, but Quarles's ; but haven't you 
observed that the rarest things are the least obvious ? 
Don't show anybody the names in this letter. I write 
confidentially, and wish this letter to be considered as 
private. Hazlitt has written a grammar for Godwin ; 
Godwin sells it bound up with a treatise of his own on 
language, but the grey mare is the better horse. I don't 
allude to Mrs. Godwin, but to the word grammar, which 
comes near to grey 7nare, if you observe, in sound. 
That figure is called paranomasia in Greek, I am 
sometimes happy in it. An old woman begged of me 
for charity. " Ah ! sir," said she, " I have seen better 
days ; " " So have I, good woman," I replied ; but I 
meant literally, days not so rainy and overcast as that 
on which she begged : she meant more prosperous days. 
Dr. Dawe is made associate of the Royal Academy. 
By what law of association I can't guess. Mrs. Holcroft, 
Miss Holcroft, Mr. and Mrs. Godwin, Mr. and Mrs. 
Hazlitt, Mrs. Martin and Louisa, Mrs. Lum, Capt. 
Burney, Mrs. Burney, Martin Burney, Mr. Rickman, 
Mrs. Rickman, Dr. Stoddart, WilHam Dollin, Mr. 
Thompson, Mr. and Mrs. Norris, Mr. Fenwick, Mrs. 
Fenwick, Miss Fenwick, a man that saw you at our 
house one day, and a lady that heard me speak of you ; 
Mrs. Buffam that heard Hazlitt mention you. Dr. Tuthill, 
Mrs. Tuthill, Colonel Harwood, Mrs. Harwood, Mr. 
Collier, Mrs. Collier, Mr. Sutton, Nurse, Mr. Fell, Mrs. 
Fell, Mr. Marshall, are very well, and occasionally in- 
quire after you. 

41 



Boz and the Wizard 

Charles Dickens chronicles the proceedings of four 
Eton boys -'^i^ -*=^ ^=^ "^^:> ^^ 

Broadstairs, Kent, July ii, 1851 

MY DEAR MRS. WATSON, — I am so desperately 
indignant with you for writing me that short 
apology for a note, and pretending to suppose that under 
any circumstances I could fail to read with interest any- 
thing /^/i; wrote to me, that I have more than half a mind 
to inflict a regular letter upon you. If I were not the 
gentlest of men I should do it ! 

Poor dear Haldimand, I have thought of him so 
often. That kind of decay is so inexpressibly affecting 
and piteous to me, that I have no words to express my 
compassion and sorrow. When I was at Abbotsford, I saw 
in a vile glass case the last clothes Scott wore. Among 
them an old white hat, which seemed to be tumbled and 
bent and broken by the uneasy, purposeless wandering, 
hither and thither, of his heavy head. It so embodied 
Lockharfs pathetic description of him when he tried to 
write, and laid down his pen and cried, that it associated 
itself in my mind with broken powers and mental 
weakness from that hour. I fancy Haldimand in such 
another, going listlessly about that beautiful place, and 
remembering the happy hours we have passed with him, 
and his goodness and truth, I think what a dream we 
live in, until it seems for the moment the saddest dream 
that ever was dreamed. Pray tell us if you hear more 
of him. We really loved him. 

To go to the opposite side of life, let me tell you that 
a week or so ago I took Charley and three of his 
schoolfellows down the river gipsying. I secured the 
services of Charley's godfather (an old friend of mine, 
and a noble fellow with boys), and went down to Slough, 
42 



" Mahogany'* 

accompanied by two immense hampers from Fortnum 
and Mason, on (I believe) the wettest morning ever seen 
out of the tropics. 

It cleared before we got to Slough ; but the boys, who 
had got up at four (we being due at eleven), had horrible 
misgivings that we might not come, in consequence 
of which we saw them looking into the carriages before 
us, all face. They seemed to have no bodies whatever, 
but to be all face ; their countenances lengthened to that 
surprising extent. When they saw us the faces shut up 
as if they were upon strong springs, and their waistcoats 
developed themselves in the usual places. When the 
first hamper came out of the luggage-van, I was con- 
scious of their dancing behind the guard; when the 
second came out with bottles in it, they all stood wildly 
on one leg. We then got a couple of flies to drive to the 
boat-house. I put them in the first, but they couldn't 
sit still a moment, and were perpetually flying up and 
down like the toy figures in the sham snuff"-boxes. In 
this order we went on to " Tom Brown's, the tailor's," 
where they all dressed in aquatic costume, and then to 
the boat-house, where they all cried in shrill chorus for 
"Mahogany" — a gentleman so called by reason of his 
sunburnt complexion, a waterman by profession. (He 
was likewise called during the day " Hog " and " Hogany," 
and seemed to be unconscious of any proper name 
whatsoever.) We embarked, the sun shining now, in a 
galley with a striped awning, which I had ordered for the 
purpose, and all rowing hard, went down the river. We 
dined in a field ; what I suffered for fear those boys 
should get drunk, the struggles I underwent in a contest 
of feeling between hospitahty and prudence, must ever 
remain untold. I feel, even now, old with the anxiety of 
that tremendous hour. They were very good, however. 
43 



Very Wet Wet-bobs 

The speech of one became thick, and his eyes too like 
lobsters' to be comfortable, but only temporarily. He 
recovered and I suppose outlived the salad he took. I 
have heard nothing to the contrary, and I imagine I 
should have been implicated on the inquest if there had 
been one. We had tea and rashers of bacon at a public- 
house, and came home, the last five or six miles in a 
prodigious thunder-storm. This was the great success of 
the day, which they certainly enjoyed more than anything 
else. The dinner had been great, and Mahogany had 
informed them, after a bottle of light champagne, that 
he never would come up the river " with ginger company " 
any more. But the getting so completely wet through 
was the culminating part of the entertainment. You 
never in your life saw such objects as they were ; and 
their perfect unconsciousness that it was at all advisable 
to go home and change, or that there was anything to 
prevent their standing at the station two mortal hours 
to see me off, was wonderful. As to getting them to their 
dames with any sort of sense that they were damp, I 
abandoned the idea. I thought it a success when they 
went down the street as civilly as if they were just up 
and newly dressed, though they really looked as if you 
could have rubbed them to rags with a touch, like 
saturated curl-paper. 

I am sorry you have not been able to see our play, 
which I suppose you won't now, for I take it you are not 
going on Monday, the twenty-first, our last night in 
town ? 4t is worth seeing, not for the getting up (which 
modesty forbids me to approve), but for the little bijou 
^t is, in the scenery, dresses and appointments. 

They are such as never can be got together again, 
because such men as Stanfield, Roberts, Grieve, Haghe, 
Egg and others never can be again combined in such 
44 



Strayed Little Revellers 

a work. Everything has been done at its best from 
all sorts of authorities, and it is really very beautiful 
to look at. 

I find I am " used up " by the Exhibition. I don't 
say " there is nothing in it '^ — there's too much. I have 
only been twice ; so many things bewildered me. I 
have a natural horror of sights, and the fusion of so 
many sights in one has not decreased it. 

I am not sure that I have seen anything but the 
fountain and perhaps the Amazon. It is a dreadful 
thing to be obliged to be false, but when anyone says, 

" Have you seen ?" I say " Yes," because if I don't, 

I know he'll explain it, and I can't bear that. took 

all the school one day. The school was composed of 
a hundred " infants," who got among the horses' legs 
in crossing to the main entrance from the Kensington 
Gate, and came reeling out from between the wheels 
of coaches undisturbed in mind. They were clinging 
to horses, I am told, all over the park. When they 
were collected and added up by the frantic monitors, 
they were all right. They were then regaled with cake, 
etc., and went tottering and staring all over the place ; 
the greater part wetting their forefingers and drawing 
a wavy pattern on every accessible object. One infant 
strayed. He was not missed. Ninety and nine were 
taken home, supposed to be the whole collection, but 
this particular infant went to Hammersmith. He was 
found by the police at night, going round and round 
the turnpike, which he still supposed to be a part of 
the Exhibition. He had the same opinion of the police, 
also of Hammersmith workhouse, where he passed the 
night. When his mother came for him in the morning, 
he asked when it would be over? It was a great Exhibi- 
tion, he said, but he thought it long. 
45 



Combe Florey en fete 

As I begin to have a foreboding that you will think 
the same of this act of vengeance of mine, this present 
letter, I shall make an end of it with my heartiest and 
most loving remembrances to Watson. I would have 
liked him of all things to have been in the Eton expedi- 
tion, tell him, and to have heard a song (by-the-bye, I 
have forgotten that) sung in the thunder-storm, solos by 
Charley, chorus by the friends, describing the career 
of a booby who was plucked at College, every verse 
ending — 

" I don't care a fig what the people may think, 
But what WILL the governor say! " 

which was shouted with a deferential jollity towards myself, 
as a governor who had that day done a creditable action, 
and proved himself worthy of all confidence. — Ever, dear 
Mrs. Watson, most sincerely yours. 



The Rev. Sydney Smith tells Mrs. Grote everything 
Combe Florey, Dece?nber 20, 1840 

I AM improved in lumbago, but still less upright than 
Aristides. Our house is full of beef, beer, young 
children, newspapers, libels, and mince-pies, and life goes 
on very well, except that I am often reminded I am too 

near the end of it. I have been trying 's Lectures 

on the French Revolution^ which I could not get on 
with, and am reading Thiers, which I find it diffi- 
cult to lay down. is long and feeble ; and though 

you are tolerably sure he will be dull, you are not 
equally sure he will be right. We are covered with snow, 
but utterly ignorant of what cold is, as are all natural 
philosophers. 

46 



A Threat of Baronets 

What a remarkable woman she must be, that Mrs. 
Grote! she uses the word "thereto.'''' Why use anti- 
quated forms of expression? Why not wear antiquated 
caps and shoes? Of all women living, you least want 
these distinctions. 

I join you sincerely in your praise of ; she is beauti- 
ful, she is clear of envy, hatred, and malice, she is very 
clear of prejudices, she has a regard for me. 

It will be a great baronet season, — a year of the 
Bloody Hand. I know three more baronets I can intro- 
duce you to, and four or five knights ; but, I take it, 
the mock-turtle of knights will not go down. I see how 
it will end : Grote will be made a baronet ; and if he is 
not, I will. The Ministers, who would not make me a 
bishop, can't refuse to make me a baronet. I remain 
always your attached friend, 

Sydney Smith 
Horace Walpole keeps George Montagu informed ^^^ 



A 



Arlington Street, December i6, 1764 

S I have not read in the paper that you died lately 
at Greatworth, in Northamptonshire, nor have met 
with any Montagu or Trevor in mourning, I conclude you 
are living ; I send this, however, to inquire, and, if you 
should happen to be departed, hope your executor will be 
so kind as to burn it. 

Though you do not seem to have the same curiosity 
aT^out my existence, you may gather from my handwriting 
that I am still in being ; which being perhaps full as much 
as you want to know of me, I will trouble you with no 
further particulars about myself — nay, nor about anybody 
else : your curiosity seeming to be pretty much the same 
47 



The State of the Town 

about all the world. News there are certainly none, no- 
body is even dead, as the Bishop of Carlisle [Lyttleton] 
told me to-day, which I repeat to you in general, though 
I apprehend in his own mind he meant no possessor of a 
better bishopric. 

If you like to know the state of the town, here it is. 
In the first place, it is very empty ; in the next, there 
are more diversions than the week will hold. A charming 
Italian opera, with no dances and no company, at least on 
Tuesdays ; to supply which defects the subscribers are 
to have a ball and supper — a plan that in my humble 
opinion will [fill] the Tuesdays and empty the Saturdays. 
At both playhouses are woful English operas, which, 
however, fill better than the Italian, patriotism being 
entirely confined to our ears ; how long the sages of 
the law may leave us those I cannot say. Mrs. Cornells, 
apprehending the future assembly at Almack's, has en- 
larged her vast room, and hung it with blue satin, and 
another with yellow satin ; but Almack^'s room, which 
is to be ninety feet long, proposes to swallow up both 
hers, as easily as Moses' rod gobbled down those of the 
magicians. 

Well, but there are more joys ; a dinner and assembly 
every Tuesday at the Austrian Minister's ; ditto on 
Thursdays at the Spaniard's ; ditto on Wednesdays and 
Sundays at the French Ambassador's ; besides Madame 
de Welderen's on Wednesdays, Lady Harrington's Sun- 
days, and occasional private mobs at my Lady North- 
umberland's. Then for the mornings, there are levees 
and drawing-rooms without end. Not to mention tlie 
Maccaroni Club ; which has quite absorbed Arthur's ; 
for you know old fools will hobble after young ones. 
Of all these pleasures I prescribe myself a very small 
pittance, — my dark corner in my own box at the Opera, 
48 



Walpole Forlorn 

and now and then an ambassador, to keep my French 
going till my journey to Paris. Politics are gone to sleep, 
like a paroli at pharaoh, though there is the finest tract 
lately published that was ever written, called an '' Inquiry 
into the Doctrine of Libels.^'' It would warm your old 
Algernon blood ; but for what anybody cares, might as 
well have been written about the wars of York and 
Lancaster. 

The thing most in fashion, is my edition of Lord 
Herbert's Life ; people are mad after it, I believe be- 
cause only 200 were printed ; and, by the numbers 
that admire it, I am convinced that if I had kept his 
lordship's counsel, very few would have found out the 
absurdity of it. 

The caution with which I hinted at its extravagance 
has passed with several for approbation, and drawn in 
theirs. This is nothing new to me; it is when one laughs 
out at their idols, that one angers people. I do not wonder 
now that Sir Philip Sidney was the darling hero, 
when Lord Herbert, who followed him so close, and 
trod in his steps, is at this time of day within an ace 
of rivalling him. I wish I had let him; it was con- 
tradicting one of my own maxims, which I hold to be 
very just ; that it is idle to endeavour to cure the 
world of any folly, unless we could cure it of being 
foolish. 

Tell me whether I am likely to see you before I go to 
Paris, which will be early in P'ebruary. I hate you for 
being so indilTerent about me. I live in the world, yet 
love nothing; care a straw for nothing but two or three 
old friends that I have loved these 30 years. You have 
buried yourself with half a dozen parsons and squires, 
and yet never cast a thought upon those you have 
always lived with. 

E 49 



E. FG. takes a New Pen 

You come to town for two months, grow tired in 
six weeks, hurry away, and then one hears no more 
of you till next winter. I don't want you to like the 
world ; I like it no more than you ; but I stay a 
while in it, because while one sees it one laughs at it, 
but when one gives it up, one grows angry with it ; and I 
hold it much wiser to laugh than to be out of humour. 
You cannot imagine how much ill-blood this persever- 
ance has cured me of; I used to say to myself: "Lord! 
this person is so bad, that person is so bad. I hate 
them." I have now found out that they are all pretty 
much alike, and I hate nobody. Having never found 
you out, but for integrity and sincerity, I am much 
disposed to persist in a friendship with you ; but if I am 
to be at all the pains of keeping it up, I shall imitate 
my neighbours (I don't mean those at next door, but 
in the Scripture sense of neighbour, anybody) and say, 
" That is a very good man, but I don't care a farthing 
for him." Till I have taken my final resolution on that 
head, I am yours most cordially. 

Edward FitzGerald reports progress ^^^ ^^^ ^^^ 

Market Hill, Woodbridge 
October 1866 

MY DEAR POLLOCK,— (You shall have a new 
Pen), I suppose your Country Rambles are over, 
and that you are got back to J:he old Shop. Well then, let 
me hear of you, do. I can't forget your kindly accosting 
of me in Holborn in the Spring, when I was after 
Carpets, etc. Well, I fitted up two rooms in my new 
House (there are only three) and got it ready for a sick 
Niece, who was there for two months. 
SO 



Sophocles a Sort of Craze 

But I have not got into it ; but go on here : after 
living some forty years in lodgings, one is frightened 
at a Change : yet it would be better to go. 

Meanwhile, here I am. 

For nearly four months I was living on board my Big 
Ship. Bed as well as Board. She was only laid up in 
her Mud a week ago ; and here I am returned to mine. 
Laurence called on me (he was at my Brother's) just 
before I had bid Adieu to my Seafaring ; so I didn't see 
him. 

Please to send me Spedding's new Address ; he won't, 
however, be obliged to you for doing so, I believe ; but 
I must have the Old Villain out of his Cart twice a Year 
at least. 

I want you to send me your ''Carte de Visite'' : you 
said you would three or four years ago, but you have not 
done so. Can't you send me a good one of Spedding? 
He wouldn't, for all I could say to him. I daresay you 
have several of him : do send me one : and not the 
worst : and one of yourself, Do. I have written to 
Blakesley for his ; as also to tell him that his Herodotus 
seems to me the very best Edition of a classic that ever 
came into my hands. I scarce know why it is that I 
always get back to Greek (and Virgil) — when in my 
Ship : but so it is. Sophocles has been a sort of Craze 
to me this Summer. 

{N.B. — Don't be frightened. No Translation threatened ! 
All that done with for ever.) And Herodotus has been 
delightful. Now, I turn again to Mudie. Arinadale 
have you read? Absurd as it is, so near being very 
good, I only wish it were a dozen Volumes instead of 
Two. It is time to read again the Woinan in White: a 
Masterpiece in its way I do think. I guessed at Annie 
Thackeray's new Novel in the Cornhill\ so much of 
51 



"Now could I drink hot — Grog" 

her Father: so much of Herself: I think she begins 
to deal rather too much in Reflections ; but her 
Pictures are delightful : her Children the best I ever 
read. 

' Tis now the very witching Time of night, etc. Now 
could I drink hot — Grog — and so I will. When I 
was in my Ship I could smoke and drink — Punch, 
even — but I shall soon have to give up, now I am laid 
up. 

My Paper is in mourning, for my Brother Peter's 
Wife : a Capital Woman, who died five months 
ago. 

He really loved her, was like a Ship without rudder 
when he lost her, and has in consequence just married, 
his Housekeeper. 

I believe he has done well. 

Now do write to me ; and send me your Photograph, 
as also the Monster's. 



Robert Louis Stevenson sets down a day's work at 
Apia "v:> ^^:> ^^^ ^v> -^Ci^ ^^ 

(To Sidney Colvin) 

In the Mountain, Apia, Samoa 
Tuesday, November 3, 1890 

I BEGIN to see the whole scheme of letter-writing; 
you sit down every day and pour out an equable 
stream of twaddle. 

This morning all my fears were fled, and all the trouble 

had fallen to the lot of Peni himself, who deserved it ; 

my field was full of weeders ; and I am again able to 

justify the ways of God. All morning I worked at the 

52 



The Path up the Vaituliga 

South Seas, and finished the chapter I had stuck upon 
on Saturday. Fanny, awfully hove-to with rheumatics 
and injuries received upon the field of sport and glory, 
chasing pigs, was unable to go up and down stairs, so 
she sat upon the back verandah, and my work was 
chequered by her cries. *' Paul, you take a spade to do 
that — dig a hole first. If you do that, you'll cut your 
foot off ! Here, you boy, what do you there ? You no 
get work ? You go find Simele ; he give you work. 
Peni, you tell this boy he go find Simele ; suppose 
Simele no give him work, you tell him go 'way. I no 
want him here. That boy no good.'' — Pent (from the 
distance in reassuring tones), "All right, sir !" — Faiuiy 
(after a long pause), "Peni, you tell that boy go find 
Simele. I no want him stand here all day. I no 
pay that boy. I see him all day. He no do nothing." 
Luncheon, beef, soda-scones, fried bananas, pine-apple 
in claret, coffee. Try to write a poem ; no go. Play 
the flageolet. Then sneakingly off to farming and 
pioneering. P^our gangs at work on our place ; a 
lively scene ; axes crashing and smoke blowing ; all 
the knives are out. But I rob the garden party of one 
without a stock, and you should see my hand — cut to 
ribbons. Now I want to do my path up the Vaituliga 
single-handed, and I want it to burst on the public com- 
plete. Hence, with devilish ingenuity, I begin it at 
different places ; so that if you stumble on one section, 
you may not even then suspect the fulness of my labours. 
Accordingly, I started in a new place, below the wire, 
and hoping to work up to it. It was perhaps lucky I 
had so bad a cutlass, and my smarting hand bid me 
stay before I had got up to the wire, but just in season, 
so that I was only the better of my activity, not dead beat 
as yesterday. 

S3 



In a South-Sea Forest 

A strange business it was, and infinitely solitary ; away 
above, the sun was in the high tree-tops ; the lianas 
noosed and sought to hang me ; the saplings struggled, 
and came up with that sob of death that one gets to know 
so well ; great, soft, sappy trees fell at a lick of the cut- 
lass, little tough switches laughed at and dared my best 
endeavour. Soon, toiling down in that pit of verdure, 
I heard blows on the far side, and then laughter. I 
confess a chill settled on my heart. Being so dead 
alone, in a place where by rights none should be beyond 
me, I was aware, upon interrogation, if those blows had 
drawn nearer, I should (of course quite unaffectedly) have 
executed a strategic movement to the rear ; and only the 
other day I was lamenting my insensibility to supersti- 
tion! Am I beginning to be sucked in ? Shall 1 become 
a midnight twitterer like my neighbours ? At times I 
thought the blows were echoes ; at times I thought the 
laughter was from birds. For our birds are strangely 
human in their calls. Vaea mountain about sundown 
sometimes rings with shrill cries, like the hails of merry, 
scattered children. As a matter of fact, I believe stealthy 
wood-cutters from Tanugamanono were above me in the 
wood and answerable for the blows ; as for the laughter, 
a woman and two children had come and asked Fanny's 
leave to go up shrimp-fishing in the burn ; beyond doubt, 
it was these I heard. Just at the right time I returned ; 
to wash down, change, and begin this snatch of letter 
before dinner was ready, and to finish it afterwards, before 
Henry has yet put in an appearance for his lesson in " long 
explessions." 

Dinner : stewed beef and potatoes, baked bananas, 
new loaf-bread hot from the oven, pine-apple in claret. 
These are great days ; we have been low in the past ; but 
now are we as belly-gods, enjoying all things. 
54 



Lady Augusta Stanley- 
Thomas Carlyle meets Queen Victoria ^^^ ^^ 
(To Mrs. Aitken, Dumfries) 

Chelsea, March ii, 1869 

DEAR JEAN,— . . . "Interview" took place this 
day gone a week ; nearly a week before that, the 
Dean and Dean-^j-j- (who is called Lady Augusta Stanley, 
once Bruce, an active hand and busy little woman) drove 
up here in a solemnly mysterious, though half quizzical 
manner, invited me for Thursday, 4th, 5 p.m.: — must 
come, a very " high or indeed highest person has long 
been desicoi^s^" -etc. etc. I saw well enough it was the 
Queen incogfiita ';' and briefly agreed to come. "Half- 
past 4 COyilEL you ! " and then went their ways. 

Walking up at the set time, I was then ushered into a 
long drawing-room in their monastic edifice. I found no 
Stanley there ; only at the farther end, a tall old Gearpole ^ 
of a Mrs. Grote, — the most wooden woman I know in 
London or the world, who thinks herself very clever, etc., 
— the sight of whom taught me to expect others; as ac- 
cordingly, in a few minutes, fell out. Grote and wife. Sir 
Charles Lyell and ditto, Browning and myself, were I saw 
to be our party. " Better than bargain ! These will take 
the edge off the thing, if edge it have ! " — which it hadn't, 
nor threatened to have. 

The Stanleys and we were all in a flow of talk, and some 
flunkies had done setting coffee-pots, tea-cups of sublime 
patterns, when Her Majesty, punctual to a minute, glided 
softly in, escorted by her Dame in Waiting (a Dowager 
Duchess of Athol) and by the Princess Louise, decidedly a 
very pretty young lady, and clever too, as I found in speak- 
ing to her afterwards. 

1 Irish weaver implement, 

55 



Queen Victoria 

The Queen came softly forward, a kindly little smile 
on her face ; gently shook hands with all three women, 
gently acknowledged with a nod the silent deep lion of us 
male monsters ; and directly in her presence everybody was 
as if at ease again. She is a comely little lady, with a pair 
of kind, clear, and intelligent grey eyes ; still looks plump 
and almost young (in spite of one broad wrinkle that 
shows in each cheek occasionally^ ; has a fine low voice ; 
soft indeed her whole manner is and melodiously perfect ; 
it is impossible to imagine a /^///^/' little woman — nothing 
the least imperious; all gentle, all j-/;/^^r^-looking ; un- 
embarrassing, rather attractive even ; — makes you feel 
too (if you have sense in you) that she is Queen. 

After, a little word to each of us in succession as we 
stood, — to me it was, " Sorry you did not see my 
Daughter," Princess of Prussia (or, "■ she sorry," perhaps ?) 
which led us into Potsdam, Berlin, etc., for an instant 
or two; to Sir Charles Lyell I heard her say, "Gold in 
Sutherland," but quickly and delicately cut him short in 
responding ;"" to ^Browning, "Are you writing anything ?" 
(he has just been publishing the absurdest of things!); 
to Grote I did not hear what she said ; but it was touch 
and go with everybody ; Majesty visibly without interest 
or nearly so of her own. 

This done, coffee (very black and muddy) was handed 
round ; Queen and three women taking seats in opposite 
corners, Mrs. Grote in a chair intrusively close to Majesty, 
Lady Lyell modestly at the diagonal corner ; we others 
obliged to stand, and hover within call. Coffee fairly 
done. Lady Augusta called me gently to " Come and 
speak with Her Majesty." I obeyed, first asking, as an 
old and infirmish man. Majesty's permission to sit^ 
which was graciously conceded. Nothing of the least 
significance was said, nor needed \ however, my bit of 

56 



The Philosopher Escapes 

dialogue went very well. '' What part of Scotland 1 
came from?" " Dumfries-sl)ire (where Majesty might as 
well go some time) ; Carlisle','/.^. Caer-Lewal, a place about 
the antiquity of King Solomon (according to Milton, 
whereat Majesty smiled)'^ Border-Ballads (and even 
old Jamie Pool slightly alluded to, — not by name!); 
Glasgow, and even Grandfather's ride thither, — ending in 
mere psalms, and streets vacant at half-past nine p.m. ; — 
hard sound and genuine Presbyterian root of what has 
now shot up to be such a monstrous ugly cabbage-tree 
and Hemlock-tree ! '^ all which Her Majesty seemed to 
take rather well. 

Whereupon Mrs. Grote rose, and good naturedly brought 
forward her Husband to her own chair, cheek by jowl 
with Her Majesty, who evidently did not care a straw 
for him, but kindly asked "Writing anything?" and one 
heard '' Aristotle, now that I have done with Plato," etc., 
etc. — but only for a minimum of time. Majesty herself 
(I think apropos of some question of my shaking hand) 
said something about her own difficulty in writing by 
dictation, which brought forward Lady Lyell and husband, 
naturally used to the operation — after which, talk be- 
coming trivial, Majesty gracefully retired, — Lady Augusta 
with her, — and in ten minutes more, returned to receive 
our farewell bows ; which, too, she did very prettily ; and 
sailed out as if moving on skates, and bending her head 
towards us with a smile. By the Underground Railway 
I was home before seven, and out of the adventure, with 
only a headache of little moment. 

Froude tells me there are foolish myths about the 
poor business, especially about my share of it, but this is 
the real truth ; — worth to me, in strict speech, all but 
nothing ; the myths even less than nothing. . . . 

T. Carlyle 
57 



A Questionable Model 

Mary Guilhermin, 1766, instructs children in the art 
of letter-writing. '^:^ ^^^ ^:> -v^ ^^^ 

DEAR PAP A, — Yesterday, after an agreeable walk 
of half-a-mile to our parish church, I was inspired 
with a truly unaffected zeal to join in that well composed 
form of prayer contained in our church liturgy, expressed 
in so audible, so solemn, so easy an elocution, so em- 
phatic, without the least tincture of pedantry, that the 
divine proved to his congregation he was sensible that 
he was addressing the Supreme Being, which dispenses 
happiness to mankind, and inspired everyone with a real 
fervency to join in prayer and thanksgiving to our Creator. 
When he mounted the pulpit, his grave deportment drew 
the attention of old and young. His subject, on the 
reciprocal duties between parents and children, warmed 
one with a lively gratitude for your kind nurture of me 
from tender infancy till now. Every duty he mentioned 
that is required from the parent I was persuaded you had 
performed in regard to me, and upon examination, find- 
ing myself too often deficient in my past, have resolved 
to amend past errors, and by a uniform good behaviour 
prove myself to be your 

Grateful and Faithful Son 



S8 



Ill 

THE FAMILIAR MANNER 
Miss Austen tells all the news ^;^ ^^y <^ 



Steventon, Tuesday^ December 1798 

MY DEAR CASSANDRA, — Your letter came quite 
as soon as I expected, and so your letters will 
always do, because I have made it a rule not to expect 
them till they come, in which I think I consult the ease 
of us both. 

It is a great satisfaction to us to hear that your busi- 
ness is in a way to be settled, and so settled as to give 
you as little inconvenience as possible. You are very 
welcome to my father's name and to his services if they are 
ever required in it. I shall keep my ten pounds too, to 
wrap myself up in next winter. 

I took the liberty a few days ago of asking your black 
velvet bonnet to lend me its cawl, which it very readily 
did, and by which I have been enabled to give a con- 
siderable improvement of dignity to cap, which was 
before too nidgetty to please me. I shall wear it on 
59 



Miss Austen's Bonnet 

Thursday, but I hope you will not be offended with me 
for following your advice as to its ornaments only in part. 
I still venture to retain the narrow silver round it, put 
twice round without any bow, and instead of the black 
military feather shall put in the coquelicot one as being 
smarter, and besides coquelicot is to be all the fashion 
this winter. After the ball I shall probably make it en- 
tirely black. 

I am sorry that our dear Charles begins to feel the 
dignity of ill-usage. My father will write to Admiral 
Gambler. He must have already received so much satis- 
faction from his acquaintance and patronage of Frank, 
that he will be delighted, I dare say, to have another of 
the family introduced to him. I think it would be very 
right in Charles to address Sir Thomas on the occasion, 
though I cannot approve of your scheme of writing to 
him (which you communicated to me a few nights ago) 
to request him to come here and convey you to Steventon. 
To do you justice, however, you had some doubts of the 
propriety of such a measure yourself. 

I am very much obliged to my dear little George for 
his message — for his love at least ; his diity, I suppose, 
was only in consequence of some hints of my favourable 
intentions towards him from his father or mother. I am 
sincerely rejoiced, however, that I ever was born, since 
it has been the means of procuring him a dish of tea. 
Give my best love to him. 

This morning has been made very gay to us by visits 
from our two lively neighbours, Mr. Holder and Mr. John 
Harwood. 

I have received a very civil note from Mrs. Martin, re- 
questing my name as a subscriber to her Library, which 
opens January 14, and my name, or rather yours, is 
accordingly given. My mother finds the money. May 
60 



Mrs. Powlett gives Satisfaction 

subscribes too, which I am glad of, but hardly expected. 
As an inducement to subscribe, Mrs. Martin tells me that 
her collection is not to consist only of novels, but of every 
kind of literature, etc. She might have spared this pre- 
tension to our family, who are great novel-readers and 
not ashamed of being so ; but it was necessary, I suppose, 
to the self-consequence of half her subscribers. 

I hope and imagine that Edward Taylor is to inherit 
all Sir Edward Bering's fortune as well as all his own 
father's. I took care to tell Mrs. Lefroy of your calling on 
her mother, and she seemed pleased with it. 

I enjoyed the hard black frosts of last week very much, 
and one day while they lasted walked to Deane by 
myself. I do not know that I ever did such a thing in 
my life before. 

Charles Powlett, has been very ill, but is getting well 
again. His wife is discovered to be everything that the 
neighbourhood could wish her, silly and cross as well as 
extravagant. 

Earle Harw^ood and his friend Mr. Bailey came to 
Deane yesterday, but are not to stay above a day or two. 
Earle has got the appointment to a prison ship at Ports- 
mouth, which he has been for some time desirous of having, 
and he and his wife are to live on board for the future. 

We dine now at half-past three, and have done dinner, 
I suppose, before you begin. We drink tea at half-past 
six. I am afraid you will despise us. My father reads 
Covvper to us in the morning, to which I listen when I 
can. How do you spend your evenings? I guess that 
Elizabeth works, that you read to her, and that Edward 
goes to sleep. My mother continues hearty ; her appetite 
and nights are very good, but she complains of an 
asthma, a dropsy, water in her chest, and a liver disorder. 

The third Miss Irish Lefroy is going to be married to 
6i 



James Digweed's Accident 

a Mr. Coiirteney, but whether James or Charles I do not 
know. Miss Lyford is gone into Suffolk with her brother 
and Miss Lodge. Everybody is now busy in making up 
an income for the two latter. Miss Lodge has only 
800/. of her own, and it is not supposed that her father 
can give her much ; therefore the good offices of the 
neighbourhood will be highly acceptable. John Lyford 
means to take pupils. 

James Digweed has had a very ugly cut — how could it 
happen? It happened by a young horse which he had 
lately purchased, and which he was trying to back into 
its stable ; the animal kicked him down with his fore feet, 
and kicked a great hole in his head ; he scrambled away 
as soon as he could, but was stunned for a time, and 
suffered a good deal of pain afterwards. Yesterday he 
got upon the horse again, and, for fear of something 
worse, was forced to throw himself off. 

Wednesday. — I have change4 my mind, and changed 
the trimmings of my cap this morning : they are now 
such as you suggested. I felt as if I should not prosper 
if I strayed from your directions, and I think it makes me 
look more like Lady Conyngham now than it did before, 
which is all that one lives for now. I believe I shall 
make my new gown like my robe, but the back of the 
latter is all in a piece with the tail, and will seven yards 
enable me to copy it in that respect ? 

Mary went to church on Sunday, and had the weather 
been smiling, we should have seen her before this time. 
Perhaps I may stay at Manydown as long as Monday, but 
not longer. Martha sends me word that she is too busy 
to write to me now, and but for your letter I should have 
supposed her deep in the study of medicine preparatory 
to their removal from Ibthorp. The letter to Gambler 
goes to-day. 

62 



Miss Austen's Magnificent Project 

I expect a very stupid ball ; there will be nobody 
worth dancing with, and nobody worth talking to but 
Catherine, for I believe Mrs. Lefroy will not be there. 
Lucy is to go with Mrs. Russell. 

People get so horribly poor and economical in this part 
of the world that I have no patience with them. Kent is 
the only place for happiness ; everybody is rich there. I 
must do similar justice, however, to the Windsor neigh- 
bourhood. I have been forced to let James and Miss 
Debry have two sheets of your drawing-paper, but they 
shan't have any more ; there are not above three or four 
left, besides one of a smaller and richer sort. Perhaps 
you may want some more if you come through town in 
your return, or rather buy some more, for your wanting 
it will not depend on your coming through town, I imagine. 
I have just heard from Martha and Frank : his letter was 
written on November 12. All well and nothing particular. 

J. A. 

II 

Chawton, Friday {May 31) 181 1 

MY DEAR CASSANDRA, — I have a magnificent 
project. The Cookes have put off their visit to us ; 
they are not well enough to leave home at present, and 
we have no chance of seeing them till I do not know 
when — probably never in this house. 

This circumstance has made me think the present time 
would be favourable for Miss Sharpens coming to us, 
it seems a more disengaged period with us than we are 
likely to have later in the summer. If Frank and Mary 
do come, it can hardly be before the middle of July, 
which will be allowing a reasonable length of visit for 
Miss Sharpe, supposing she begins it when you return; 
63 



Comfort for a Thunderstorm 

and if you and Martha do not dislike the plan, and she 
can avail herself of it, the opportunity of her being con- 
veyed hither will be excellent. 

I shall write to Martha by this post, and if neither you 
nor she make any objection to my proposal, I shall make 
the invitation directly, and as there is no time to lose, 
you must write by return of post if you have any reason 
for not wishing it done. It was her intention, I believe, 
to go first to Mr. Lloyd, but such a means of getting here 
may influence her otherwise. 

We have had a thunder-storm again, this morning. 

Your letter came to comfort me for it. 

I have taken your hint, slight as it was, and have 
written to Mrs. Knight, and most sincerely do I hope 
it will not be in vain. I cannot endure the idea of her 
giving away her own wheel, and have told her no more 
than the truth, in saying that I could never use it with 
comfort. I had a great mind to add that, if she persists 
in giving it, I would spin nothing with it but a rope to 
hang myself, but I was afraid of making it appear a less 
serious matter of feeling than it really is. 

I am glad you are so well yourself, and wish every- 
body else were equally so. I will not say that your 
mulberry-trees are dead, but I am afraid they are not 
alive. We shall have pease soon. I mean to have 
them with a couple of ducks from Wood Barn, and 
Maria Middleton, towards the end of next week. 

From Monday to Wednesday Anna is to be engaged 
at Faringdon, in order that she may come in for the 
gaieties of Tuesday (the 4th), on Selborne Common, 
where there are to be volunteers and felicities of all kinds. 
Harriet B. is invited to spend the day with the John 
Whites, and her father and mother have very kindly 
undertaken to get Anna invited also. 
64 






The Plumbtree Problem 

Harriet and Eliza dined here yesterday, and we walked 
back with them to tea — not my mother — she has a cold, 
which affects her in the usual way, and was not equal 
to the walk. She is better this morning, and I hope will 
soon physick away the worst part of it. It has not con- 
fined her ; she has got out every day that the weather 
has allowed her. 

Poor Anna is also suffering from her cold, which is 
worse to-day, but as she has no sore throat I hope it 
may spend itself by Tuesday. She had a delightful 
evening with the Miss Middletons — syllabub, tea, coffee, 
singing, dancing, a hot supper, eleven o'clock, every- 
thing that can be imagined agreeable. She desires her 
best love to Fanny, and will answer her letter before she 
leaves Chawton, and engages to send her a particular 
account of the Selborne day. 

We cannot agree as to which is the eldest of the two 
Miss Plumbtrees ; send us word. Have you remembered 
to collect pieces for the patch work? We are now at a 
standstill. I got up here to look for the old map, and 
can now tell you that it shall be sent to-morrow •, it was 
among the great parcel in the dining-room. As to my 
debt of 3s. 6d. to Edward, I must trouble you to pay it 
when you settle with him for your boots. 

We begun our China tea three days ago, and I find it 
very good. My companions know nothing of the matter. 
As to Fanny and her twelve pounds in a twelve month, 
she may talk till she is as black in the face as her own 
tea, but I cannot believe her — more likely twelve pounds 
to a quarter. 

I have a message to you from Mrs. Cooke. The sub- 
stance of it is, that she hopes you will take Bookham 
in your way home, and stay there as long as you can, 
and that when you must leave them they will convey 
F 65 



Miss Webb and the Letter R 

you to Guilford. You may be sure that it is very kindly 
worded, and that there is no want of attendant com- 
pliments to my brother and his family. 

I am very sorry for Mary, but I have some comfort 
in there being two curates now lodging in Bookham, 
besides their own Mr. Waineford, from Dorking, so that 
I think she must fall in love with one or the other. 

How horrible it is to have so many people killed! 
And what a blessing that one cares for none of them! 

I return to my letter-writing from calling on Miss 
Harriet Webb, who is short and not quite straight, and 
cannot pronounce an R any better than her sisters ; but 
she has dark hair, a complexion to suit, and, I think, has 
the pleasantest countenance and manner of the three — 
the most natural. 

She appears very well pleased with her new home, 
and they are all reading with delight Mrs. H. More's 
recent publication. 

You cannot imagine — it is not in human nature to 
imagine — what a nice walk we have round the orchard. 
The row of beech look very well indeed, and so does 
the young quickset hedge in the garden. I hear to-day 
that an apricot has been detected on one of the trees. 
My mother is perfectly convinced now that she shall 
not be overpowered by her cleft-wood, and I believe I 
would rather have more than less. Strange to tell, Mr. 
Prowting was not at Miss Lee's wedding, but his 
daughters had some cake, and Anna had her share of it. 

I continue to like our old cook quite as well as ever, and, 
but that I am afraid to write in her praise, I could say 
that she seems just the servant for us. Her cookery is 
at least tolerable ; her pastry is the only deficiency. 

God bless you, and I hope June will find you well, 
and bring us together. — Yours ever, Jane 

66 



A Delay at Kingston 

I hope you understand that I do not expect you to 
write on Sunday if you like my plan. I shall consider 
silence as consent. 

Ill 

Henrietta Street, W.C. 
Wednesday, September 15, | past 8 [18 13] 

HERE I am, my dearest Cassandra, seated in the 
breakfast, dining, sitting-room, beginning with all 
my might. Fanny will join me as soon as she is dressed 
and begin her letter. We had a very good journey, 
weather and roads excellent ; the three first stages for 
IS. 6d., and our only misadventure the being delayed 
about a quarter of an hour at Kingston for horses, and 
being obliged to put up with a pair belonging to a 
hackney coach and their coachman, which left no room 
on the barouche box for Lizzy, who was to have gone her 
last stage there as she did the first ; consequently wt 
were all four within, which was a little crowded. 

We arrived at a quarter past four, and were kindly 
welcomed by the coachman, and then by his master, and 
then by William, and then by Mrs. Pengird, who all met 
us before we reached the foot of the stairs. Mdme 
Bigion was below dressing us a most comfortable dinner 
of soup, fish, bouillee, partridges, and an apple tart, which 
we sat down to soon after five, after cleaning and dress- 
ing ourselves and feeling that we were most commodiously 
disposed of. The little adjoining dressing-room to our 
apartment makes Fanny and myself very well off indeed, 
and as we have poor Eliza's bed our space is ample 
every way. 

Sace arrived safely at about half-past six. At seven 
we set off in a coach for the Lyceum, were at home 
67 



Henry Austen's Cold 

again in about four hours and a half; had soup, and 
wine and water, and then went to our holes. 

Edward finds his quarters very small and quiet. I 
must get a softer pen. This is harder. I am in agonies. 
I have not yet seen Mr. Crabbe. Martha's letter is gone 
to the post. 

I am going to write nothing but short sentences. 
There shall be two full stops in every line. Layton 
and Shear^'s is Bedford House. We mean to get there 
before breakfast if ifs possible ; for we feel more and 
more how much we have to do and how little time. 
This house looks very nice. It seems Hke Sloane Street 
moved here. I believe Henry is just rid of Sloane 
Street. Fanny does not come, but I have Edward 
seated by me beginning a letter, which looks natural. 

Henry has been suffering from the pain in the face 
which he has been subject to before. He caught cold at 
Matlock, and since his return has been paying a little for 
past pleasure. It is nearly removed now, but he looks 
thin in the face, either from the pain or the fatigues of 
his tour, which must have been great. 

Lady Robert is dehghted with P. and P., and really 
was so, as I understand, before she knew who wrote it, for 
of course, she knows now. He told her with as much 
satisfaction as if it were my wish. He did not tell jne 
this, but he told Fanny. And Mr. Hastings ! I am quite 
delighted with what such a man writes about it. Henry 
sent him the books after his return from Daylesford, but 
you will hear the letter too. 

Let me be rational, and return to my two full stops. 

I talked to Henry at the play last night. We were in 

a private box — Mr. Spencer's — which made it much more 

pleasant. The box is directly on the stage. One is 

infinitely less fatigued than in the common way. But 

68 



A London Holiday 

Henry's plans are not what one could wish. He does 
not mean to be at Chawton till the 29th. He must be in 
town again by Oct. 5. His plan is to get a couple of 
days of pheasant shooting and then return directly. 

His wish was to bring you back with him. I have told 
him of your scruples. He wishes you to suit yourself as 
to time, and if you cannot corne till later, will send for 
you any time as far as Bagshot. He presumed you would 
not find difficulty in getting so far. I could not say you 
would. He proposed your going with him into Oxford- 
shire. It was his own thought at first. I could not but 
catch at it for you. 

We have talked of it again this morning (for now we 
have breakfasted), and I am convinced that if you can 
make it suit in other respects you need not scruple on his 
account. If you cannot come back with him on the 3rd 
or 4th, therefore, I do hope you will contrive to go to 
Adlestrop. By not beginning your absence till about the 
middle of this month I think you may manage it very 
well. But you will think all this over. One could wish 
he had intended to come to you earlier, but it cannot be 
helped. 

I said nothing to him of Mrs. H. and Miss B. that he 
might not suppose difficulties. Shall not you put them 
into our own room ? This seems to me the best plan, 
and the maid will be most conveniently near. Oh, dear 
me! When shall I ever have done? We did go to 
Layton and Shear's before breakfast. Very pretty 
English poplins at 4s. 3d. ; Irish ditto at 6s. ; more 
pretty, certainly — beautiful. 

Fanny and the two girls are gone to take places for 

to-night at Covent Garden ; Clandestine Marriage and 

Midas. The latter will be a fine show for L. and M. 

They revelled last night in Don Juan., whom we left in 

69 



Miss Austen's New Gown 

Hell at half-past eleven. We had Scaramouch and a 
ghost, and were delighted. I speak of them ; ;;// delight 
was very tranquil, and the rest of us were sober-minded. 
Don Juan was the last of three musical things. Five 
Hours at Brighton, in three acts — of which one was over 
before we arrived, none the worse — and the Beehive, 
rather less flat and trumpery. 

I have this moment received 5/. from kind, beautiful 
Edward. Fanny has a similar gift. I shall save what 
I can of it for your better leisure in this place. My 
letter was from Miss Sharpe — nothing particular. A 
letter from Fanny Cage this morning. 

Four o'^clock. — We are just come back from doing Mr. 
Tickars, Miss Hare, and Mr. Spence. Mr. Hall is here, 
and, while Fanny is under his hands, I will try to write 
a little more. 

Miss Hare had some pretty caps, and is to make me 
one like one of them, only white satin instead of blue. 
It will be white satin and lace, and a little white flower 
perking out of the left ear, like Harriot Byron's feather. 
I have allowed her to go as far as i/. i6s. My gown 
is to be trimmed everywhere with white ribbon plaited 
on somehow or other. She says it will look well. I am 
not sanguine. They trim with white very much. 

I learnt from Mrs. Tickars' young lady, to my high 
amusement, that the stays now are not made to force the 
bosom up at all ; that was a very unbecoming, unnatural 
fashion. I was really glad to hear that they are not to 
be so much off the shoulders as they were. 

Going to Mr. Spence's was a sad business and cost us 
many tears ; unluckily we were obliged to go a second 
time before he could do more than just look. We went 
first at half-past twelve and afterwards at three ; papa with 
us each time ; and, alas ! we are to go again to-morrow. 
70 



Dentist and Coiffeur 

Lizzy is not finished yet. There have been no teeth 
taken out, however, nor will be, I believe, but he finds 
hers in a very bad state, and seems to think particularly 
ill of their durableness. They have been all cleaned, 
hers filed, and are to be filed again. There is a very sad 
hole between two of her front teeth. 

Thursday inornitig^ half -past seveji. — Up and dressed 
and downstairs in order to finish my letter in time for the 
parcel. At eight I have an appointment with Madame 
B., who wants to show me something downstairs. At 
nine we are to set off for Grafton House, and get that 
over before breakfast. Edward is so kind as to walk 
there with us. We are to be at Mr. Spence's again at 
1 1. 5; from that time shall be driving about I suppose 
till four o'clock at least. We are, if possible, to call on 
Mrs. Tilson. 

Mr. Hall was very punctual yesterday, and curled me 
out at a great rate. I thought its look hideous, and 
longed for a snug cap instead, but my companions 
silenced me by their admiration. I had only a bit of 
velvet round my head. I did not catch cold, however. 
The weather is all in my favour. I have no pain in my 
face since I left you. 

We had very good places in the box next the stage- 
box, front and second row ; the three old ones behind of 
course. I was particularly disappointed at seeing nothing 
of Mr. Crabbe. I felt sure of him when I saw that the 
boxes were fitted up with crimson velvet. The new Mr. 
Terry was Lord Ogleby, and Henry thinks he may do ; 
but there was no acting more than moderate, and I was 
as much amused by the remembrances connected with 
Midas as with any part of it. The girls were very much 
delighted, but still prefer Don Juan ; and I must say 
that I have seen nobody on the stage who has been a 
71 



Miss Austen's Extravagance 

more interesting character tlian that compound of cruelty 
and lust. 

It was not possible for me to get the worsteds 
yesterday. I heard Edward last night pressing Henry 
to come to you, and I think Henry engaged to go there 
after his November collection. Nothing has been done 
as to 6". and S. 

The books came to hand too late for him to have time 
for it before he went. Mr. Hastings never hinted at 
Eliza in the smallest degree. Henry knew nothing of 
Mr. Trimmer's death. I tell you these things that you 
may not have to ask them over again. 

There is a new clerk sent down to Alton, a Mr. Edward 
Williams, a young man whom Henry thinks most highly 
of, and he turns out to be a son of the luckless Williamses 
of Grosvenor Place. 

I long to have you hear Mr. H.'s opinion of P. ajtd P. 
His admiring my Elizabeth so much is particularly 
welcome to me. 

Instead of saving my superfluous wealth for you to 
spend, I am going to treat myself with spending it 
myself. I hope, at least, that I shall find some poplin 
at Layton and Shear's that will tempt me to buy it. 
If I do, it shall be sent to Chawton, as half will be for 
you ; for I depend upon your being so kind as to accept 
it, being the main point. It will be a great pleasure to 
me. Don't say a word. I only wish you could choose 
too. I shall send twenty yards. 

Now for Bath. Poor F. Cage has suffered a good 
deal from her accident. The noise of the White Hart 
was terrible to her. They will keep her quiet, I dare 
say. She is not so much delighted with the place as the 
rest of the party ; probably, as she says herself, from 
having being less well, but she thinks she should like it 
72 



A Good Grandmother 

better in the season. The streets are very empty now, 
and the shops not so gay as she expected. They are at 
No. I Henrietta Street, the corner of Laura Place, and 
have no acquaintance at present but the Bramstons. 
Lady Bridges drinks at the Cross Bath, her son at the 
Hot, and Louisa is going to bathe. Dr. Parry seems to be 
half starving Mr. Bridges, for he is restricted to much 
such a diet as James's bread, water and meat, and is never 
to eat so much of that as he wishes, and he is to walk 
a great deal — walk till he drops, I believe — gout or no 
gout. It really is to that purpose. 

I have not exaggerated. 

Charming weather for you and me, and the travellers, 
and everybody. You will take your walk this afternoon, 
and . . . 

Dame Dorothy Browne (Sir Thomas Browne's lady) 
gives postscript news of the health and well-being 
of Master Tommy Browne, her grandson ^^:> ^^^ 

I 

Aug. 29 [1678] 

DEARE SONNE, — ... I bless God your Tomy is 
very well ; goose to scolle, and is a very good boy, 
and delights his grandfather when hee comes home. 

n 

Jime 28 [1679?] 

DEARE DAUGHTER, — . . . Wee dayly wish for the 
new cloths ; all our linen being worne out but shefts, 
and Tomey would give all his stock to see his briches. 
I bless God wee ar all well as I hope you ar. Tomey pre- 
sents his dutty, your sisters all love and services. — Yout 
affectionate mother, Dorothy Browne 

73 



Tommy Browne*s Puppet Show 
III 

July 5 [1679] 

TOiMEY have receved his cloues, and is much de- 
lighted, and sends you and his mother and grand- 
mother dutty and thanckes, and meanes to war them 
carefully. 

IV 

Novemb. vii. [1679] 

DEARE DAUGHTER, — I thanclcGod for your latter, 
and shall be so glad to see my Tomey returne in 
helth though ever so durty : hee knows fullars earth will 
cleane all. I besich God of his mercy blesse you all. — 
Your affectinat mothar, Dorothy Browne 



Sept. 6 [1680] 

I BLESS God wee all continow wel, and Tomey 
present his dutty to you and his fathar, and give 
you many thanks for your touken. Hee did thinke to 
Wright him selfe. Hee is now a very good boy for his 
boak, I can assuer you, and delights to read to his grand- 
father and I, when he coms from schole. God of his 
mercy bless you all. — Your affectinat mothar, 

Dorothy Browne 

VI 

Feb. xiii. [168 1-2] 

YOUR Tomey grows a stout fellow, I hope you will 
com and see him this svmmor, hee is in great 
expextion of a tumbler you must send him for his popet 
show, a punch he has and his wife, and a straw king and 
quen, and ladies of honor, and all things but a tumbler, 
which this town cannot aford : it is a wodin fellow that 
turns his heles over his head. . . . 
74 



IV 

THE GRAND STYLE 

The Swan of Lichfield greets the Ladies of Llangollen 

(To the Right Hon. Lady Eleanor Butler, and 
Miss Ponsonby) 



T 



Lichfield, April 24, 1798 

HE frame for Honora's exact, though accidental, 
resemblance in the print of Romney's Serena read- 
ing by candle light, is at length arrived. I dare believe 
my charming friends will think the figure, countenance 
and features express the sweetness, intelHgence and 
grace, with which the strains, honoured by their mutual 
partiality, invest the fair friend of my youth. 

You must each have been deeply disquieted by the 
miserable scenes which have been acted in your native 
Ireland since I had last the honour to address you. 
None of your particular friends are, I trust, on the dire 
list of those who have fallen the vicdms of its assassina- 
tions. Had my gallant friend, the murdered Colonel 
St. George, the happiness of your acquaintance? — Of 
him at least you must well know, from your intimacy 
with his lovely and accomplished sister-in-law. 
75 



Miss Seward improves Fenelon 

My Telemachus has taken a snail's walk since I gave 
myself the pleasure of writing to you. Two mornings 
of leisure, the only ones I could obtain in the interim, 
produced the enclosed extract. You have heard me say, 
that I could scarcely ever persuade myself to admit the 
Muses, in exclusion of any social or epistolary duty or 
pleasure. Small, therefore, with connections and corre- 
spondence so numerous, is the probability that I shall 
ever finish an epic poem. 

You will perceive that Fenelon's Telemachus forms as 
yet but the mere basis of this attempted work ; but I 
conclude, that when the prince, in what will form my 
third book, narrates his own adventures, I must be 
more indebted to the prose composition. Whether those 
incidents, not very interesting from Fenelon's pen, are 
capable of receiving poetic spirit and animation from 
mine, remains to be tried. If I retain my excursive 
manner of going over the ground, there will be sufficient 
length for an epic poem, without pursuing the long train 
of less animated events that ensues after Telemachus 
and Mentor quit Calypso's island. Homer follows not 
Achilles when he leaves the ruins of Troy ; and if Virgil 
had not followed ^neas after he left Carthage, his poem, 
though less complete, would have been more interesting. 
After the death of Dido I yawned through the remainder; 
read it once as a task, and never since looked into the 
pages beyond that epoch. 

Ah ! dearest ladies, how groundless has the assertion 
proved on which every one relied, that Duncan's victory 
threw the perils of invasion at a wide distance ! — but I 
will not pursue the alarming subject. 

This day a summer's sun warmly gilds the fields, the 
gardens, and the groves, now diffusing fragrance, and 
bursting into bloom. Fresh and undulating breezes from 
76 



Scenery at Lichfield 



the east lured me into my drawing-room, having placed 
in its lifted sash the ^olian harp. It is, at this instant, 
warbling through all the varieties of the harmonic chords. 
This apartment looks upon a small lawn, gently sloping 
upwards. Till this spring, it was shrubbery to the edge 
of the grassy terrace on its summit ; but I have lately 
covered it with a fine turf, sprinkled with cypresses, 
junipers, and laurels. It is bordered on the right hand 
by tall laburnums, lilacks, and trees of the Gelder rose, 

" throwing up, 'mid trees of darker leaf, 

Its silver globes, light as the foamy surf. 
Which the wind severs from the broken wave." 

Beyond this little lawny elevation, the wall which 
divides its terrace from the sweet valley it overlooks, is 
not visible. These windows command the loveliest part 
of that valley, and only its first field is concealed by the 
sloping swell of the fore-ground. 

The vale is scarcely half a mile across, bounded, basin- 
iike, by a semicircle of gentle hills, luxuriantly foliaged. 
There is a lake in its bosom, and a venerable old church, 
with its grey and moss-grown tower on the water's edge. 
Left of that old church, on the rising ground beyond, 
stands an elegant villa half shrouded in its groves ; and, 
to the right below, on the bank of the lake, another villa 
with its gardens. The as yet azure waters are but little 
intercepted by the immense and very ancient willow that 
stands opposite these windows in the middle of the vale; 
that willow, whose height and dimensions are the wonder 
of naturalists. The centre of the lake gleams through 
its wide-spread branches, and it appears on each side like 
a considerable river, from its boundaries being concealed. 

On the right, one of our streets runs from the town to 
the water, interspersed with trees and gardens. It looks 

n 



" Vernal Luxury ** 

like an umbraged village, and is all we see from hence 
of the city, so that nothing can be more quiet and rural 
than the landscape. It is less beautiful in summer than 
in spring, from the weeds that sprout up in the lake, and 
from the set which partially creeps upon its surface. 

In my youth, it was always clear — but it is said that, 
some fifteen years back, two of our gormandizing alder- 
men took a boat and sowed it with water-lilies to preserve 
the fish. The mischief is irreparable, since the cleansing 
it receives every autumn only procures transparence till 
the sun of middle summer enables the deep-rooted weeds 
to defy the scythe and the shovel. 

What shall I say for the slovenliness of the inclosed 
transcripts? — Thus you behold my incorrigible pen 
sinning, from time to time, against the fairness of tran- 
scription, — sinning and confessing, like a frail papist, 
and repenting without amendment. 

What lovely weather! Our valley is bursting into 
bloom, and the fruit trees of a large public garden in one 
part of it, now in full blossom, presents a grove of silver, 
amidst the lively and tender green of the fields and 
hedgerows. Alas! the melancholy of the apprehensive 
heart is rather increased than abated by this vernal luxury. 
It seems but as gay garlands on the neck of a victim. 

In every frame of mind, I remain, dearest ladies, etc. 

The Swan of Lichfield word-paints ^^> ^^:> -'^^ 

(To the Rev. Dr. Parr) i 

Scarborough, /?//k 27, 1793 

DISEASE gloomed, and made long my wintry and ! 
vernal hours, since I had the honour and delight 
of conversing with you in Warwickshire. Dr. Darwin i 
78 



"The Smiles of Hygela'* 

enjoined that I should go to Buxton in June, pass some 
weeks there, and then travel onward to the North Coast, 
for the benefit of the sea-bathing. Inexpressibly do I 
regret this watery discipline, whose necessity has de- 
prived me of the power to receive that highly gratify- 
ing visit from Dr. Parr, the hope of which had been 
so precious. 

Travelling thus far to obtain the smiles of Hygeia, I 
am ordered to wait upon her naiads on the ocean brim, 
during a period of equal length with that on which I 
courted those who administer at her soft fountains in 
Derbyshire. Having promised to pause on my way home 
with some friends of my infancy and youth in Yorkshire, 
it must be the second week in September ere I can return 
to Lichfield. I fear your attention to your pupils will 
not suffer me then to enjoy that pleasure of which this 
reluctant excursion has deprived me. Surely you could 
not doubt my being absent from Lichfield, when you 
waited in vain for an acknowledgment, so instantly 
due. May I hope to see you during the Christmas 
recess? Whenever you shall again extend to me an 
expectation thus flattering, I will avoid every interfering 
scheme. 

My health is better than it was in the winter and 
spring, though I am still often indisposed. My obliga- 
tions are perhaps more to the warmth of summer for this 
amendment, than to my libations from the naiads, and 
immersion in their waves, than to the attractions and 
repulsions of stranger intercourse ; or even to the dearer 
society it has afforded me with long absent friends. 
When the spirit of youth has evaporated, fatigues are not 
easily recompensed to the languid, or broken habits to 
the stationary. Often, in this absence from our little city, 
do I look back with home-sick eyes to my umbrageous 
79 



Charlotte Corday 

retreat beneath its spires, especially when the swart star 
glares. 

This gay and busy shore has considerable picturesque 
beauty, as perhaps you are visually conscious ; but I 
regret that its seas have slept since my arrival in mirror 
calmness, and would have thanked the ruder winds to 
have lashed them into sublimity. 

The pleasure of Mr. Dewes', — of Mr. and Mrs. 
Grenville's, and Miss Delabere's society, allured me hither 
from my purposed residence, on the more retired coast 
of Bridlington, twenty miles from hence. Amiable Lord 
and Lady Lifford are of their party. My daily visits to 
them have constituted the chief though not the sole 
social charm of this bustling scene ; yet alas ! it has been 
often darkened by concern, to see dear Mr. Dewes so 
languid and out of health. We hope and trust, however, 
that his complaints are not dangerous. 

That interesting group leave Scarborough on Monday, 
and therefore I have promised to meet my old friends of 
this country the ensuing week at Bridlington, if lodgings 
can be procured for us there. 

Do you not admire this second Judith, the young fair 
one of Normandy, who has slain the bloody dictator at 
Paris, without waiting for his intoxication, or his slumber, 
to give her courage for the blow ? 

Adieu, dear and honoured Sir. I dare assure myself, 
you rejoice that our political horizon is cleared of that 
lurid turbidity with which it scowled when we met in 
Warwickshire. 



80 



Invoked Sublimity 

The Swan of Lichfield contemplates the ocean ^^^^ ^::> 

(To Mr. Saville) 

Scarborough, /?//k 29, 1793 

THIS morning the dear party, vanishing from the 
diff, dissolved for me the magnetism of Scar- 
borough. I passed ahiiost the whole of yesterday with 
them. Mr. Dewes, inquiring after you, most kindly 
bids me say, that he sincerely rejoices in the benefit your 
health has received from your excursion to Weymouth. 
He does not think himself better; but I trust he is 
mistaken. O ! justly do you say, that we cannot afford 
to lose such men, so thinly sown in this thick-swarming 
world. 

That I am most truly glad of the renovated health 
you have imbibed on the ocean's edge, you surely will 
not doubt ; nor that 1 sympathise with every good that 
is ordained you, with every joy that you feel. I praise 
you for resisting the sailing temptations, for not trusting 
the flattery of the summer-seas, which has so often 
proved fatal where the security was no less apparent. 

Whenever the wind blows from the east at this port, 
however calmly it may breathe on shore, the sea runs 
high. All yesterday it had a large portion of the sub- 
limity I had invoked. About a quarter of a mile down 
the right-hand sands, a small promontory juts out ; upon 
its topmost bank, about twenty yards high, the chalybeate 
springs arise ; and there also a fort is constructed, with 
parapet walls, to which we ascend by steps. At high- 
water, the sea encircles this promontory, and lashes its 
rocks. 

Last night, at eight o'clock, as we walked upon the 
cliff, we saw the waves of a sublimely agitated sea dashing 

G 81 



Miss Seward's Rage for the Terrific 

and bounding up the sides of the fort, their spray flying 
over its parapets. The tide was then on the turn, and 
we were told, that, in about an hour, we might walk to 
the promontory, by keeping close to the base of the rocks, 
and attain the elevation before the waves had ceased 
to lash and clamber up its walls. Nobody but myself 
being inclined to venture, I went home to undress, 
resolved to taste, amidst the incumbent gloom of a very 
lowering night, a scene congenial to my taste for the 
terrible graces. Requesting the stout arm of Mr. Dewes's 
servant, I began with him my sombre expedition. As I 
passed along the sands, the tide twice left its white surf 
upon my feet ; and the vast curve of those fierce waves, 
that burst down with deafening roar, scarce three yards 
from me, sufficiently gratified my rage for the terrific. 

We found the lower steps of the fort inaccessible, from 
the waters not having yet receded from them ; but, with 
some difficulty, climbing behind the rocks, I got upon a 
level with the sixth step, and was thus enabled to ascend 
the eminence. By this time, the last gloom of the night 
had fallen, and the white foam of the thundering waters 
made their " darkness visible." It seemed scarce pos- 
sible that an unconscious element could wear such horrid 
appearances of living rage. Each billow seemed a 
voraginous monster, as it came roaring on, and dashed 
itself against the repelling walls. The spray of each 
flashing wave flew over my head, and wet me on its 
descent. The pealing waters, louder than thunder, made 
it impossible for me or the servant to hear each other 
speak. My own maid would not venture to accompany 
me on an expedition of such seeming peril. I stood at 
least half an hour on the wild promontory's top, almost 
totally encircled by the dark and furious main. It was 
half past ten when I returned to Lord Lififord's, to take 
82 



An Umbrageous Dale 

my leave of the party, and to acknowledge the infinitely 
kind attentions with which they had honoured me. 

We passed Thursday last in a beautiful, a richly 
umbrageous, and romantic dale, about seven miles from 
hence ; the rival, in picturesque graces, of most which 
adorn the Peak of Derbyshire, with only one inferiority, 
its water. The Vale of Hackness boasts only a tolerably 
broad and gurgling brook, which presumptuously assumes 
the name of Darrent. Screened by overhanging alders, 
it winds through the bosom of the glens, and is scarce 
seen, except on its brink ; but, from the hills which 
encircle them, we see the ocean, covered with ships, 
stretching over the magnificent woods of Rainsford, that 
curtain the mountains with lavish luxuriance. 

Mr. Dewes, and Master and Miss Hewit, the son and 
niece of Lord Lifford, and myself, w^ent to Hackness 
in Lord Lifford's coach ; graceful and amiable Lady 
Lifford, and Mr. and Mrs. Granville, on horseback. The 
village, " marked with a little spire," nestles deep in the 
vale : near it a small rural inn, for the accommodation 
of the numerous parties which resort from Scarborough, 
to enjoy a scene of such striking contrast with the 
uncurtained beach, the monotonous ocean, and the 
crowded town, whose red houses run up the cliifs, and 
parch in the noontide suns. 

At this petit inn we dined in great plenty and comfort ; 
our eggs and bacon, our cold mutton and pease, our 
roast fowl, and our gooseberry-pie, acquiring a relish 
from the ride, and previous ramble in the dale ; relish 
which seldom seasons the viands of a pompous board. 

We drank tea on the shady brim .of the stream that 
huddles through a rocky channel, and with its liquid 
notes, assists the waving alders and taller beeches in 
tempering the heats of the day. 

83 



The Wingfield Head-Dresses 

It was a scene and a society to soothe every latent 
discontent of the heart, and, as Milton says of Eden, to 
" chace all sorrow but despair." 

I dine with the Wingfield party to-day, and accompany 
them to the ball at night. I went to the Friday assembly 
with Lady Lifford and Mrs. Granville. The present 
fashion of head-dress, unless tempered as it was by the 
hand of taste on Lady Lifford, Mrs. Granville, and Miss 
Wingfield, has an undoing influence upon youth and 
beauty. The Lady L s had disposed their hair ex- 
actly to resemble the lank straight locks of a methodist par- 
son and wound it round with something they called turban, 
scarce resembling the Turkish head-dress, which is very 
graceful, and which Lady Lifford's, Mrs. Granville's, and 
Miss Wingfield's, as I observed before in my exception, 

did very much resemble ; the Lady L s looked like 

diseased heads bound up in towels. They were extremely 
unjust to their personal attractions. People who are of 
rank to lead the fashions, are either accountable for the 
false taste of ungraceful invention, or for groveUing 
acquiescence, in following the bad taste of others. Lady 
Susan is finely shaped, and dances accurately ; but Lady 
Georgiana unites to all the skill and variety of step, the 
most joyous and hberal grace of the head and arms. — 
Adieu. 



84 



V 

WITH A SPICE 

Jane Welsh Carlyle tells all the news ^^ ^^ ^^> 

I 
(To T. Carlyle, Scotsbrig i) 

Clifton, August 29, 1837 

DEAREST LOVE, — I have been too long waiting for 
certainties ; hitheringTcad. thithering being a condition 
under which I find it almost impossible to write, or in- 
deed to do anything except fret myself to fiddlestrings. 
What I generally do in such cases is to shape out a 
decision with all dispatch for fnyself, and leave the others 
to welter on in their own fashion. Accordingly, when I 
found on our arrival at CHfton that it was all in the wind 
whether we should stay there one week or two or three, 
and whether we should return straight to London or by 
Brighton, or by the Isle of Wight, or first making a " run 
over to Dublin," I immediately announced my intention of 
descending by Parachute^ and was only prevented from 
carrying it out by humane consideration for the parties in 
the Balloon, where there was evidently going to be an 

1 Is gone on a tour with the elder Mr. and Mrs. Sterling, while I 
am in Scotland rusticating and vegetating. — T. C. 

85 



"His Whirlwindship " 

alarming explosion in case of my departure ; Mrs. Sterling 
having set her heart for a visit of some length to the 
Bartons, and his Whirlwindship finding the whole Barton 
generation " creatures without stimulus," whom he was 
desirous to cut and run from, by " feeling it his duty to see 
poor Mrs. Carlyle 'ome." His secret purpose was evidently 
to take himself and me back in the carriage, and leave Mrs. 
S. to follow as she could ; and this I felt would have been a 
very ungracious proceeding towards that good soul, who 
treats me with such kindness and consideration. I now 
perceive the use my company is of to them both, better 
than I did when we set out : I furnish, as it were, the sugar 
and ginger, which makes the alkali of the one and the 
tartaric acid of the other eifervesce into a somewhat more 
agreeable draught ; for, " the effervescing of these people ! " 
To say the least " it is very absurd ! " But I shall keep 
all my stock of biographic notices to enliven our winter 
evenings. Meanwhile you are to know that we left Malvern 
for Clifton a week ago, all of us with very dry eyes. 

Mr. Sterling, on finding that certain lords who smiled 
deceitful at the Carlton Club, were absolutely inaccessible 
at the Foley Arms, suddenly discovered that your 
beautiful scenery was a great humbug, as you had only 
"to strip the soil a foot deep and it would be a vile 
black mass." Mrs. Sterling, in her querulous, qualifying, 
about it and about it way, doubted whether it was whole- 
some to overlook such a flat, " not but what it was very 
well to have seen for once, or if there was any necessity 
for living there, of course one would not object," etc., 
etc. : — and, for me poverina, from the first moment I 
set my eyes on the place, I foresaw that it would prove a 
failure ; that it would neither make me a convert to 
Nature^ nor find me in a new nervous system. Every 
day of our stay there I arose with a headache, and my 
86 



Nature a Show — and Bore 

nights were unspeakable ; every day I felt more em- 
phatically that JVattire was an intolerable bore. Do not 
misconstrue me, — genuine, unsophisticated Nature, I 
grant you, is all very amiable and harmless ; but 
beautiful Nature, which man has exploited, as a Reviewer 
does a work of genius, making it a peg to hang his own 
conceits upon, to enact his Triumph der Empfindsatnkeit ^ 
in, — beautiful Nature, which you look out upon from 
pea-green arbours, which you dawdle about in on the 
backs of donkeys, and where you are haunted with an 
everlasting smell of roast meat — all that 1 do declare 
to be the greatest of bores, and I would rather spend my 
days amidst acknowledged brick houses and paved streets, 
than in any such fools' paradise. 

So entirely unheimlich I felt myself, that the day I got 
your Letter I cried over it for two or three hours. In other 
more favourable circumstances, I should have recognised 
the tone of sadness that ran all through it, as the simple 
effect of a tiresome journey, and a dose of physic at the 
end ; but, read at Malvern, with headache and ennui for 
interpreters ! — Alas ! what could I do but fling myself on 
my bed and cry myself sick ? 1 said to myself you were 
no better than when you left me, and all this absence was 
gone for nothing. I wanted to kiss you into something 
like cheerfulness, and the length of a kingdom was between 
us, — and if it had not — the probabilities are that, with 
the best intentions, I should have quarrelled with you 
rather. Poor men and poor women ! what a time they have 
in this world, by destiny and their own deserving. But as 
Mr. Bradfute used to say, " tell us something we do not 
know.*" 

Well, then, it is an absolute fact that his Whirlwind- 
ship and I rode to the top of Malvern Hill, each on a 
1 Goethe's Dramas, Triumph of Sensibility, 
87 



Malvern Amenities 

live donkey! Just figure it! with a Welsh lad whipping 
us up from behind ; for they were the slowest of donkeys, 
though named in defiance of all probability, Fly and 
Lively. "• The Devil confound your donkeys ! " exclaimed 
my vivacious companion (who might really, I think, " but 
for the honour of the thing," and perhaps some small 
diminution of the danger of bursting his lungs, have as 
well walked !) " they are so stupidly stubborn that you 
might as well beat on a stick." " And isn't it a good 
thing they be stubborn, Sir?" said the lad, "as being, 
you see, that they have no sense ; if they wasn't stubborn 
they might be for taking down the steep, and we wants 
no accidents, Sir." " Now," said I, " for the iirst time 
in my life I perceive why Conservatives are so stupidly 
stubborn; stubbornness, it seems, is a succedaneum for 
sensed — A flash of indignation — then in a soft tone, 
" Do you know, Mrs. Carlyle, you would be a vast deal 
more amiable, if you were not so damnably clever!" 
This is a fair specimen of our talk at Malvern from 
dewy morn to balmy eve. My procedure at Worcester 
(where we passed two days, and whence I sent a 
Newspaper) was unexpected and disappointing in the 
extreme. I walked into the house of the illustrious 
Archdeacon along a lengthy passage, down two steps 
into an antique-looking drawing-room or suite of 
drawing-rooms ; without giving proof of being anything 
out of the common. I cast my nota-bene eyes over the 
man : — a large portly figure, belonging to the rotund 
school, the very beau ideal of an old Abbot, with a 
countenance full of twinkling intelligence and gregarious 
good humour, having a high metallic tone of voice, and 
a whisking suddenness of movement, accompanied by 
a peculiar fling of the coat-skirts, which reminded me 
forcibly of the Archivariiis Lindhorst. I also flung a 



The Archidiaconal Bed 

cursory glance on a table, where a massive lunch was 
spread out, such as realised one's sublimest conceptions 
of a Convent refectory ; and then without more said or 
done, I pitched myself into a fluffy, snow-white bed, 
which was shown me as mine; where I lay twenty-four 
hours, not out of sheer contradiction, but because I 
really could no longer hold myself erect. In vain the 
prim Archdeconian Perpetua came at stated intervals 
to know if I wanted anything? receiving always for 
answer, " To be let alone " ; and in vain the Whirlwind 
himself came at intervals not stated, to ask in a tone 
of deep tho' loud pathos (for it was from outside the 
door) "if I believed that he was exceedingly sorry," 
receiving also one unvarying answer, " Yes, yes ! " 
My headache refused to listen to the voice of either 
charmer till it had run its course. It was indeed a 
strange preternatural night, the first I passed in that 
Prebendary Establishment, right under the stroke (it 
seemed to me) of the great cathedral clock, which strikes 
even the quarters, haunted by the images of the large 
Archdeaconess and large pigeon-pie I had seen below, 
and surrounded by queer old cabinets and gigantic 
china bowls ; — all which taken together had to my 
over-excited imagination a cast of magic ! Especially 
in the dead of night, with a rushlight dimly lighting 
the chamber; and betwixt sleeping and waking. I 
I repeatedly sprang up in a panic, with my head quite 
mystified between this Worcester Archdeacon and the 
German Archivarius, and could by no possibility decide 
1 whether Archdeacon Singleton was not also the father 
\ of a green serpent and could make his face into a bronze 
I knocker! Worthy man, when he welcomed me anew next 
day with the broadest smiles, he little suspected what 
I strange thoughts I had had of him. 
1 89 



" Lack of Stimulus " 

But I have quite miscalculated my distance, and have 
left no room for my travels' history since. The loss 
will not be material. Suffice it to say, we came from 
Malvern to Chepstow all in one day, besides " doing " 
Eastnor Castle, Goodrich Castle, Tintern Abbey, and 
Chepstow Castle ; and the next, on to Clifton ; thoroughly 
tired body and soul. We are in lodgings here : I have 
a quiet room, and sleep better. Every day we dine 
with the Bartons, the kindest people to dine with one 
could wish ; but as he says, there is a lack of stimjilus. 
The Brother that is returned from India is the most 
wonderful compound appearance of Cavaignac and — 
Mr. Bradfute : ecco la coynbmazionel'^ And now here 
is surprising news for you : — John Sterling is to be back 
in London, with his Wife and her little ones, about the 
1 2th. He himself having turned towards Maderia, in 
consequence of cholera abroad ; and the family to 
remain at Knightsbridge ; which I do not think his 
Father half likes. Poor John is really a little flighty, 
"after all." 

I fondly hope to quit Clifton the end of this present 
week ; and to go home by the base of the isosceles 
triangle, which the Isle of Wight makes with Clifton 
and London, instead of along the two sides. I long 
for home, and to be putting in order for your coming. 
I shall send you a Newspaper immediately on my 
landing; and then you will write to say when. O, my 
Darling, we will surely be better, both of us, there again ; 
effervescing even: — don't you think so? I made no 

1 Curious and tragicomical indeed ; yet conceivable to me ; like 
that of a sternly sorrowful leopard, with a pitifully ditto hare! 
Cavaignac is Godfroi, elder Brother of Eugene, subsequently 
President of the French Republic ; Bradfute is the old Edinburgh 
Bookseller. — T. C. 

90 



Reading for an Uncle 

" marg " — wrote nothing on any Newspaper, — it must 
have been some editorial mark of Mr. Sterling, which 
I had not noticed. I have sent you Papers from every 
large Town where I have been. 

I have kept no room for kind messages. Say for me 
all that you know I would wish to say. I saw the Craw- 
fords at Monmouth. Mr. C. is most emphatic for another 
Course of Lectures : — the characters, he thought a most 
glorious project. I have no doubt but you will find an 
audience prepared to be enchanted with you, whenever 
you want one. — The Book seems to be much more 
popular than I ever expected. Archdeacon Singleton 
finds nothing Radical in it! 

J. W. C. (No room for more). 

II 

(To Miss Helen Welsh, Liverpool) 

Chelsea, March 1843 

Y DEAREST HELEN, — After (in Dutnfries and 

Galloway-Courier phraseology) " taking a bird's- 
eye view " of all modern literature, I am arrived at the 
conclusion that, to find a book exactly suited to my 
uncle's taste, I must write it myself ! and, alas, that 
1 cannot be done before to-morrow morning! 

iLa Motte Fouque's Magic Ring suggests Geraldine 
(Jewsbury) . "' Too mystical ! My uncle detests confusion 
of ideas." "Paul de Kock? he is very witty." "Yes, but 
also very indecent ; and my uncle would not relish 
; indecencies read aloud to him by his daughters." "Oh ! 
ah! well! Miss Austen?" "Too washy; water-gruel 
for mind and body at the same time were too bad." 
Timidly, and after a pause, " Do you think he could stand 
91 



M 



New Books in 1843 

Victor Hugo's Notre DameV The idea of my uncle 
listening to the sentimental monstrosities of Victor Hugo! 
A smile of scorn was this time all my reply. But in 
my own suggestions I have been hardly more fortunate. 
All the books that pretend to amuse in our day come, 
in fact, either under that category, which you except 
against, '■'■ the extravagant, clown-jesting sort,'' or still 
worse, under that of what I should call the galvanised- 
death's-head-grinning sort. There seems to be no longer 
any genuine heart-felt mirth in writers of books ; they 
sing and dance still vigour e^isement, but one sees always 
too plainly that it is not voluntarily, but only for halfpence ; 
and for halfpence they will crack their windpipes, and 
cut capers on the crown of their heads, poor men that 
they are! 

I bethink me of one book, however, which we have 
lately read here, bearing a rather questionable name as 
a book for my uncle, but, nevertheless, I think he would 
like it. It is called Passages from the Life of a Radical^ 
by Samuel Bamford, a silk-weaver of Middleton. He 
was one of those who got into trouble during the 
Peterloo time ; and the details of what he then saw and 
suffered are given with a simplicity, an intelligence, and 
absence of everything like party violence, which it does one 
good to fall in with, especially in these inflated times. 

There is another book that might be tried, though I 
am not sure that it has not a little too much affinity with 
water-gruel. The Neighbours^ a domestic novel translated 
from the Swedish by Mary Howitt. There is a '' Little 
Wife" in it, with a husband, whom she calls "Bear," 
that one never wearies of, although they never say or do 
anything in the least degree extraordinary. 

Geraldine strongly recommends Stephens' Incidents j! 
of Travel in Egypt ^ Arabia, and Petrea, as " very* in' 
92 



i 



Macready in Private Life 

teresting and very short.'' Also Waterton's IVatidermgs 
m South America. There are two novels of Paul de 
Kock translated into English, which might be tried at 
least without harm done, for they are unexceptionable in 
the usual sense of that term, the Barber of Paris ^ and 
Sister Anne. 

I have read the last, not the first, and I dare say it 
would be very amusing for anyone who likes Gil Bias 
and that sort of books ; for ;;// taste it does not get on 
fast enough. 

There! enough of books for one day. Thank you for 
your letter, dear. If I had not wee angels to write me 
consolatory missives at present, I should really be terribly 
ill off. My maid continues highly inefficient, myself 
ditto ; the weather complicates everything ; for days 
together not a soul comes ; and then if the sun glimmers 
forth a whole rush of people breaks in, to the very taking 
away of one's breath ! 

Yesterday, between the hours of three and five, we had 

old Sterling, Mr. and Mrs. Von Glehen, Mr. and Mrs. 

Macready, John Carlyle, and William Cunningham. 

Geraldine professed to be mightily taken with Mrs. 

Macready; not so much so with "William." Poor dear 

William ! I never thought him more interesting, however. 

To see a man who is exhibiting himself every night on a 

i stage, blushing like a young girl in a private room, is a 

! beautiful phenomenon for me. His wife whispered into 

I my ear, as we sat on the sofa together, " Do you know 

i poor William is in a perfect agony to-day at having been 

brought here in that great-coat ? It is a stage great-coat, 

but was only worn by him twice ; the piece it was made 

for did not succeed, but it was sucli an expensive coat, I 

would not let him give it away ; and doesn't he look well 

in it?" I wish Jeannie had seen him in the coat — 

93 



Helenas Red Herring 

magnificent fur neck and sleeves, and such frogs on the 
front. He did look well, but so heartily ashamed of 
himself. 

Oh, I must tell you, for my uncle's benefit, a domestic 
catastrophe that occurred last week! One day, after 
dinner, I heard Helen lighting the fire, which had gone 
out, in the room above, with a perfectly unexampled ven- 
geance; every stroke of the poker seemed an individual 
effort of concentrated rage. What ails the creature 
now? I said to myself. Who has incurred her sudden 
displeasure? or is it the red herring she had for dinner 
which has disagreed with her stomach? (for in the 
morning, you must know, when I was ordering the 
dinner, she had asked, might she have a red herring? 
" her heart had been set upon it this a good while back : " 
and, of course, so modest a petition received an unhesi- 
tating affirmative). On her return to the subterranean, 
the same hubbub wild arose from below, which had 
just been trying my nerves from above; and when she 
brought up the tea-tray, she clanked it on the lobby- 
table, as if she were minded to demolish the whole 
concern at one fell stroke. I looked into her face 
inquiringly as she entered the room, and seeing it 
black as midnight {inorally, that is), I said very coolly, 
" A little less noise, if you please ; you are getting 
rather loud upon us." She cast up her eyes with the 
look of a martyr at the stake, as much as to say, " Well, 
if I must be quiet, I must; but you little know my 
wrongs." By-and-by Geraldine went to the kitchen for 
some reason ; she is oftener in the kitchen in one day 
than I am in a month, but that is irrelevant. "Where 
is the cat?" said she to Helen; "I have not seen her 
all night." She takes a wonderful, most superfluous 
charge of the cat, as of everything else in this establish 
94 






The Cat's Red Herring 

ment. "The cat!" said Helen grimly, "I have all but 
killed her."" " How? ■" said Geraldine. " With the besom," 
replied the other. " Why? for goodness' sake." "Why!" 
repeated Helen, bursting out into new rage ; " why 
indeed? Because she ate my red herring ! I set it 
all ready on the end of the dresser, and she ran away 
with it, and ate it every morsel to the tail — such an 
unheard-of thing for the brute to do. Oh, if I could 
have got hold of her, she should not have got off with 
her life I" "And have you had no dinner?" asked Geral- 
dine. "Oh, yes, I had mutton enough, but I had just set 
my heart on a red herring." Which was the most de- 
serving of having a besom taken to her, the cat or the 
woman ? 

My love to Babbie ; her letter to-day is most comfort- 
able. Blessings on you all. — Your affectionate cousin, 

J. Welsh 

in 

(To T. Carlyle, Esq., at Scotsbrig) 
Chelsea, Friday morm'ng, Aiigiist i8, 1843 

DEAREST, — If you expect a spirited letter from 
me to-day, I grieve that you will be disappointed. 
I am not mended yet : only mending, and that present 
participle (to use Helen's favourite word for the weather) 
is extremely " dilatory." The pains in my limbs are 
I gone, however, leaving only weakness ; and my head 
1 aches now with "' a certain " moderation ! — still enough 
■; to spoil all one's enjoyment of life — if there be any such 
\ thing for some of us — and, what is more to the purpose, 
enough to interfere with one's "did intends," which in 
my case grow always the longer the more manifold and 
complicated. 

95 



The Controversial Grooms 

Darwin came yesterday after my dinner-time (I had dined 
at three), and remarked, in the course of some specula- 
tive discourse, that I " looked as if I needed to go to 
Gunter's and have an ice ! " Do you comprehend what sort 
of look that can be? Certainly he was right, for driving to 
Gunter's and having an ice revived me considerably : it 
was the first time I had felt up to crossing the threshold, 
since I took Bessie Mudie to the railway the same evening I 
returned from Ryde. Darwin was very clever yesterday : 
he remarked apropos of a pamphlet of Maurice^s (which, 
by the way, is come for you), entitled A Letter to Lord 
Ashley respecting a certain proposed measure for stifling 
the expression of opinio?i in the University of Oxford^ 
that pamphlets were for some men just what a fit of the 
gout was for others — they cleared the system, so that they 
could go on again pretty comfortably for a while. He 
told me also a curious conversation amongst three grooms, 
at which Wrightson had assisted the day before in a 
railway carriage, clearly indicating to what an alarming 
extent the schoolmaster is abroad! Groom the first took 
a pamphlet from his pocket, saying he had bought it 
two days ago and never found a minute to read it. 
Groom the second inquired the subject. First Groom : 
'' Oh, a hit at the Puseyists." Second Groom : " The 
Puseyists? Ha, they are for bringing us back to the 
times when people burnt one another!" First Groom 
(tapping second groom on the shoulder with the 
pamphlet) : " Charity, my brother, charity ! " Third 
Groom: "Well, I cannot say about the Puseyists; but 
my opinion is that what we need is more Christianity 
and less religionism! " 

Now Wrightson swears that every word of this is 
literally as the men spoke it — and certainly Wrightson 
could not invent it. 

96 



" Vaixed nevertheless ** 

I had a long letter from old Sterling, which stupidly I 
flung into the fire in a rage (The fire? Yes, it is only for 
the last two days that I have not needed fire in the 
mornings !) ; and I bethought me afterwards that I had 
better have sent it to you, whom its cool Robert 
Macaire impudence might have amused. Only fancy 
his inviting me to come back, and " this time he 
would take care that I should have habitable lodgings!" 
His letter began, "The last cord which held me to 
existence here is snapped," — meaning me! and so on. 
Oh ! " the devil fly away with " the old sentimental 
curmudgeon ! 

I had letters from both Mr. and Mrs. Buller yesterday 
explaining their having failed to invite me ; she appears 
to have been worse than ever, and is likely to be soon 
here again. Poor old Buller's modest hope that the new 
medicine " may not turn madam blue " is really touching ! 

Here is your letter come. And you have not yet got 
any from me since my return ! Somebody must have 
been very negligent, for I wrote to you on Sunday, 
added a postscript on Monday, and sent off both letter 
and newspapers by Helen, in perfectly good time. It is 
most provoking after one has been (as Helen says) "just 
most particular" not to vaix you, to find that you have 
been vaixed nevertheless. . . . 

IV 

(To T. Carlyle, Esq., Scotsbrig) 

Chelsea, Thursday, Septefnber i8, 1845 
iy/TY DEAR, ... I have got quite over the fatigues 
^^ ^ of my journey, which had been most provokingly 
aggravated for me by a circumstance "which it may be 
interesting not to state " ; the last two nights I have slept 
H 97 



Mazzini Embarrassed 

quite as well as I was doing at Seaforth. The retirement 
of Cheyne Row is as deep at present as anyone not 
absolutely a Timon of Athens could desire. " There is, 
in the first place " (as Mr. Paulet would say), the physical 
impossibility (hardly anybody being left in town), and 
then the weather has been so tempestuous that nobody 
in his senses (except Mazzini, who never reflects whether 
it be raining or no) would come out to make visits. He 
(Mazzini) came the day before yesterday, immediately on 
receiving notification of my advent, and his doe-skin 
boots were oozing out water in a manner frightful to 
behold. He looked much as I left him, and appeared to 
have made no progress of a practical sort. He told me 
nothing worth recording, except that he had received the 
other day a declaration of love. And this he told with the 
same calma and historical precision with which you might 
have said you had received an invitation to take the chair 
at a Mechanics^ Institute dinner. Of course I asked "the 
particulars." "Why not?" and I got them fully, at the 
same time with brevity, and without a smile. Since the 
assassination aifair, he had received many invitations to 
the house of a Jew merchant of Italian extraction, where 
there are several daughters — " what shall I say ? — horri- 
bly ugly : that is, repugnant for me entirely." One of them 
is "nevertheless very strong in music," and seeing that he 
admired her playing, she had "in her head confounded 
the playing with the player." 

The last of the only two times he had availed himself of 
their attentions, as they sat at supper with Browning and 
some others, "the youngest of the horrible family" 
proposed to him, in sotto voce, that they two should 
drink "a goblet of wine" together, each to the person 
that each loved most in the world. 

" I find your toast unegoist,''' said he, " and I accept it with 



« 



" Colours in his face *' 

pleasure." "But," said she, "when we have drunk, we 
will then tell each other to whom ? " " Excuse me," said he, 
" we will, if you please, drink without conditions." Where- 
upon they drank ; " and then this girl — what shall I say ? 
bold, upon my honour — proposed to tell me to whom she 
had drunk, and trust to my telling her after. ^ As you 
like.' ^Well, then, it was to you!' * Really?' said I, 
surprised I must confess. ' Yes,' said she, pointing 
aloft, 'true as God exists.' 'Well,' said I, 'I find it 
strange.' ' Now, then,' said she, ' to whom did you 
drink ? ' ' Ah ! ' said I, ' that is another question ; ' and on 
this, that girl became ghastly pale, so that her sister 
called out, ' Nina ! what is the matter with you ? ' and 
now, thank God, she has sailed to Aberdeen." Did you 
ever hear anything so distracted ? enough to make one 

ask if R has not some grounds for his extraordinary 

ideas of English women. 

The said R presented himself here, last night, in an 

interregnum of rain, and found me in my dressing-gown 
(after the wetting), expecting no such Himmelssendung. 
I looked as beautifully unconscious as I could of all the 
amazing things I had been told of him at Seaforth. He 
talked much of " a dreadful illness ; " but looked as plump 
as a pincushion, and had plenty of what Mr. Paulet calls 
"colours in his face." He seemed less distracted than 
usual, and professed to have discovered, for the first time, 
" the infinite blessedness of work," and also to be " making 
money at a great rate — paying off his debts by five or six 
pounds a week." I remarked that he must surely have 
had a prodigious amount of debt to begin with. — Kind 
regards to your mother and the rest. J. C. 



99 



The Private Theatricals 



(To T. Carlyle, Esq., Scotsbrig) 

Tuesday, September 23, 1845 

" IVTOTHINK " for you to-day in the shape of inclosure, 
-1-^ unless I inclose a letter from Mrs. Paulet to 
myself, which you will find as "entertaining" to the full 
as any of mine. And nothink to be told either, except all 
about the play ; and upon my honour, I do not feel as if I 
had a penny-a-liner genius enough, this cold morning, to 
make much entertainment out of that. Enough to 
clasp one's hands, and exclaim, like Helen before the 
Virgin and Child, " Oh, how expensive ! " But " how 
did the creatures get through it?" Too well; and not 
well enough! The public theatre, scenes painted by 
Stansfield, costumes "rather exquisite," together with the 
certain amount of proficiency in the amateurs, overlaid 
all idea of private theatricals ; J and, considering it as 

I public theatricals, the acting was " most insipid,"" not one 
performer among them that could be called good, and 
none that could be called absolutely bad. Douglas 
Jerrold seemed to me the best, the oddity of his appear- 
ance greatly helping him ; he played Stephen the Cull, 
Forster as Kitely, and Dickens as Captain Bobadil, were 
much on a par ; but Forster preserved his identity, even 
through his loftiest flights of Macreadyism ; while poor 
little Dickens, all painted in black and red, and affecting 
the voice of a man of six feet, would have been un- 

(_ recognisable to the mother that bore him ! On the 
whole, to get up the smallest interest in the thing, one 
needed to be always reminding oneself: "all these 
100 



I 



Alfred Tennyson, Caryatid 

actors were once men ! '' ^ and will be men again to 
morrow morning. The greatest wonder for me was how 
they had contrived to get together some six or seven 
hundred ladies and gentlemen (judging from the clothes) 
at this season of the year: and all utterly unknown to 
me, except some half-dozen. 

So long as I kept my seat in the dress circle I 
recognised only Mrs. Macready (in one of the four 
private boxes), and in my nearer neighbourhood Sir 
Alexander and Lady Gordon. But in the inter\-al 
beiwixt the play and the farce I took a notion to make 
my way to Mrs. Macready. John, of course, declared 
the thing " clearly impossible, no use trying it ; " but a 
servant of the theatre, overhearing our debate, politely 
offered to escort me where I wished; and then John, 
having no longer any difficulties to surmount, followed, 
to have his share in what advantages might accrue 
from the change. Passing through a long dim passage, 
I came on a tall man leant to the wall, with his head 
touching the ceiling like a caryatid, to all appearance 
asleep, or resolutely trying it under the most unfavourable 
circumstances. "Alfred Tennyson!'' I exclaimed in 
joyful surprise. "Well!" said he, taking the hand I 
held out to him, and forgetting to let it go again. " I 
did not know you were in town,'' said I. "I should like 
to know who you are," said he; "I know that I know 
you, but I cannot tell your name ." And I had actually 
to name myself to him. Then he woke up in good 
earnest, and said he had been meaning to come to 
Chelsea. " But Carlyle is in Scotland," I told him with 
humility. " So I heard from Spedding already, but I 
asked Spedding, would he go with me to see Mrs. 

1 Speech of a very young Wedgwood at a Woolwich review; 
" Ah, papa, all these soldiers were once men." — T. C. 
lOI 



In the Macreadys* Box 

Carlyle? and he said he would." I told him if he really 
meant to come, he had better not wait for backing, 
under the present circumstances ; and then pursued my 
way back to the Macreadys' box ; where I was received 
by William (whom I had not divined) with a " Gracious 
heavens ! " and spontaneous dramatic start, which made 
me all but answer, "Gracious heavens!" and start 
dramatically in my turn. And then I was kissed all round 

by his women ; and poor Nell Gwyn, Mrs. G 

seemed almost pushed by the general enthusiasm on the 
distracted idea of kissing me also! 

They would not let me return to my stupid place, but 
put in a third chair for me in front of their box ; " and 
"the latter end of that woman was better than the 
beginning." Macready was in perfect ecstasies over the 
"Life of Schiller," spoke of it with tears in his eyes. As 
" a sign of the times," I may mention that in the box 
opposite sat the Duke of Devonshire, with Payne 
Collier! Next to us were D'Orsay and " Milady ! " 

Between eleven and twelve it was all over — and the 
practical result? Eight-and-sixpence for a fly, and a 
headache for twenty-four hours! I went to bed as 
wearied as a little woman could be, and dreamt that I 
was plunging through a quagmire seeking some herbs 
which were to save the life of Mrs. Maurice; and that 
Maurice was waiting at home for them in an agony of 
impatience, while I could not get out of the mud-water. 

Craik arrived next evening (Sunday), to make his 
compliments. Helen had gone to visit numbers,^ John 
was smoking in the kitchen. I was lying on the sofa, 
headachey, leaving Craik to put himself to the chief 
expenditure of wind, when a cab drove up. Mr. Strachey ? 
No. Alfred Tennyson alone ! Actually, by a superhuman 
iNo. 5, or the like, denoting maid-servants there. — T. C. 
1 02 



Helen visits Numbers 

effort of volition he had put himself into a cab, nay, 
brought himself away from a dinner party, and was 
there to smoke and talk with me! — by myself — me! 
But no such blessedness was in store for him. Craik 
prosed, and John babbled for his entertainment ; 
and I, whom he had come to see, got scarcely any 
speech with him. The exertion, however, of having to 
provide him with tea, through my own unassisted ingenu- 
ity (Helen being gone for the evening) drove away my 
headache ; also perhaps a little feminine vanity at having 
inspired such a man with the energy to take a cab on 
his own responsibility, and to throw himself on providence 
for getting away again! He stayed till eleven, Craik 

sitting him out, as he sat out Lady H , and would 

sit out the Virgin Mary should he find her here. 

What with these unfortunate mattresses (a work of 
necessity) and other processes almost equally indispen- 
sable, I have my hands full, and feel "worried," which is 
worse. I fancy my earthquake begins to " come it rather 
strong" for John^s comfort and ease, but I cannot help 
that ; if I do not get on with my work, such as it is, what 
am I here for? — Yours, J. C. 

VI 
(To T. Carlyle, Esq., Scotsbrig) 

Wednesday, October i, 1845 
ELL! now I am subsided again; set in for a 



w 



quiet evening, at leisure to write, and with 
plenty to write about. I know not how it is, I seem 
\ to myself to be leading a most solitary, and virtuous, and 
eventless life here, at this dead season of the year; and 
yet when I sit down to write, I have so many things to 
tell always that I am puzzled where to begin. Decidedly, 
103 



A Penny-a-Liner 

I was meant to have been a subaltern of the Daily Press 
— not " a penny-lady," i but a penny-a-liner ; for it is not 
only a faculty with me but a necessity of my nature to 
make a great deal out of nothing. 

To begin with something I have been treasuring up 
for a week (for I would not holloa till we were out of the 
wood) : I have put down the dog\^ "The dog! wasn't 
he put down at Christmas, with a hare ? " It seemed so ; 
and " we wished we might get it!" But on my return I 
found him in the old place, at the back of the wall, 
barking " like — like — anything! " " Helen ! " I said, with 
the calmness of a great despair, " is not that the same 
dog ? " " Deed is it ! " said she, " and the whole two 
months you have been away, its tongue has never lain! 
it has driven even me almost distracted!" I said no 
more, but I had my own thoughts on the subject. Poison ? 
a pistol bullet ? the Metropolitan Police ? Some way or 
other that dog — or I — must terminate. 

Meanwhile I went on cleaning with what heart I could. 
" My dear I Will you listen to the catastrophe ? " I am 
hastening, slowly — festina lente. Bless your heart I 
"there's nothing pushing" — "the rowins ^ are a' in the 
loft " for this night! Well ! it was the evening after John's 
departure. 

1 had been too busy all day to listen ; the candles were 
lit, and I had set myself with my feet on the fender to 
enjoy the happiness of being let alone, and to — bid 

lln Scotland the " Penny Ladies" (extraneously so-called) were 
busy, "benevolent" persons; subscribers of a penny a week for 
educating, etc. : not with much success. — T. C. 

2 Oh, my heroine ! Endless were her feats in regard to all this, 
and her gentle talents too ! I could not have lived here but for 
that, had there been nothing more. — T. C. 

8 " Rowins " are wool completely carded, ready for the wheel j 
when it comes down from "the loft." — T. C. 
104 



i\ 



A New Catastrophe 

myself '' consider." " Bow-wow-wow," roared the dog, 
" and dashed the cup of fame from my brow ! " " Bow- 
wow-wow," again, and again, till the whole universe 
seemed turned into one great dog-kennel! I hid my 
face in my hands and groaned inwardly. ''Oh, destiny 
accursed! what use of scrubbing and sorting? All this 
availeth me nothing, so long as the dog sitteth at the 
washerman's gate ! " I could have burst into tears, but I 
did not ! " 1 was a republican — before the Revolution ; 
and I never wanted energy ! " I ran for ink and paper, 
and wrote: — 

" Dear Gambardella, — You once offered to shoot 
some cocks for me ; that service I was enabled to dispense 
with ; but now I accept your devotion. Come, if you 

value my sanity, and " But here, " a sudden thought 

struck me." He could not take aim at the dog without 
scaling the high wall, and in so doing he would certainly 
be seized by the police ; so I threw away that first 
sibylline leaf, and wrote another — to the washerman! 
Once more I offered him '^ any price for that horrible 
dog — to hang it," offered " to settle a yearly income on 
it if it would hold its accursed tongue." I implored, 
threatened, imprecated, and ended by proposing that, 
in case he could not take an immediate final resolution, 
he should in the interview " make ^ the dog dead-drunk 
with a bottle of whiskey, which I sent for the purpose!" 
Helen was sent off with the note and whiskey; and I sat, 
all concentrated, awaiting her return, as if the fate of 
nations had depended on my diplomacy ; and so it did, 
to a certain extent! Would not the inspirations of " the 
first man in Europe " be modified,^ for the next six months 

1 Mark, mark! — T. C. 

2 Quiz mainly this, and glad mockery of some who deserved it. — 
T.C. 

105 



Mocking the Deserving 

at least, by the fact, who should come off victorious, I or 
the dog? Ah! it is curious to think how first men in 
Europe, and first women too, are acted upon by the 
inferior animals ! 

Helen came, but even before that had " the raven down 
of night " smoothed itself in heavenly silence! 

God grant this were not mere accident; oh, no! 
verily it was not accident. The washerman's two 
daughters had seized upon and read the note ; and 
what was death to me had been such rare amusement 
to them, that they " fell into fits of laughter " in the first 
place ; and, in the second place, ran down and untied the 
dog, and solemnly pledged themselves that it should 
" never trouble me more ! " At Christmas they had sent 
it into the country for three months " to learn to be quiet," 
and then chained it in the old place ; now they would 
take some final measure. Next morning came a note 
from the washerman himself, written on glazed paper, 
with a crow-quill, apologising, promising; he could not 
put it away entirely ; as it was " a great protection " to 
him, and " belonged to a relative " (who shall say where 
sentiment may not exist!), but he "had untied it, and 
would take care it gave me no further trouble," and he 
"returned his grateful thanks for what 'as been sent." It 
is a week ago : and one may now rest satisfied that the 
tying up caused the whole nuisance. The dog is to be 
seen going about there all day in the yard, like any other 
Christian dog, " carrying out " your principle of silence, 
not merely " platonically," but practically. 

Since that night, as Helen remarks, " it has not said 
one word ! " So, " thanks God," you still have quietude to 
return to ! ^ 

1 Well do I remember that dog, behind the wall, on the other 
side of the street. Never heard more. — T. C. 
io6 



The Cheyne Row Dog 

I took tea with Sterling on Monday night; walked 
there, and he sent the carriage home with me. It is very 
difficult to know how to do with him. He does not seem 
to me essentially mad ; but rather mad with the appre- 
hension of madness ; a state of mind I can perfectly 
understand — moi. He forgets sometimes Anthony's 
name, for example, or mine; or how many children 
he has ; and then he gets into a rage, that he cannot 
recollect ; and then he stamps about, and rings the bell, 
and brings everybody in the house to " help him to 
remember " ; and when all will not do, he exclaims : " I 
am going mad, by God ! " and then he is mad, as mad 
as a March hare. 

I can do next to nothing for him, beyond cheering him 
up a little, for the moment. Yesterday, again, I went a 
little drive with him ; of course, not without Saunders as 
well as the coachman. He told me that when he heard 
I had written about him, he " cried for three days.'' 
Anthony's desertion seems the central point, around 
which all his hypochondriacal ideas congregate. Anthony 
has never written him the scrape of a pen, since he left 
him insensible at Manchester; nor even written about 
him, so far as himself or his manservant knows. 

Whom else have I seen ? Nobody else, I think, except 
Mazzini, whom I was beginning to fancy the Jewess 
I must have made an enlevement of; and enleve, he had 
been, sure enough, but not by the Jewess — by himself, and 
only the length of Oxford ; or rather he meant to go only 
the length of Oxford ; but. with his usual practicahty, let 
himself be carried sixty miles further, to a place he called 
Swinton. Then, that the journey back might have also its 
share of misadventure, he was not in time to avail himself 
of the place he had taken, " in the second class " ; but 
had to jump up, " quite promiscuously," beside " the con- 
ic; 



MazzinI Is Loved Again 

ductor," where he had " all the winds of heaven blowing 
on him, and through him ; " the result a " dreadful cold." 
Dreadful it must have been when it confined him to the 
house. Meanwhile he had had — two other declarations 
of love ! ! They begin to be absurd as the midges 
in Mr. Fleming's " right eye." " What ! more of them? " 
" Ah yes! unhappily ! they begin to — to what shall I say? 
— rain on me like saicterelles \ " One was from a young 
lady in Genoa, who sent him a bracelet of her hair (the 
only feature he has seen of her) ; and begged " to be united 
to him — in plotting!" "That one was good, upon my 
honour." "And the other?" " Ah ! from a woman here, 
married, thank God ; though to a man fifty years more 
old — French, and sings — the other played, decidedly my 
love of music has consequences ! " " And how did she 
set about it? " " Francheme7it ; through a mutual friend ; 
and then she sent me an invitation to supper; and I 
returned for answer that I was going to Oxford; where 
I still am, or will remain a long, long time ! " Emanci- 
pation de la fenwiel we would say, it marches almost 
faster than intellect. And now, if there be not clatter 
enough for one night, I have a great many half-moons 
and stars to cut in paper before I go to bed. For what 
purpose ? That is my secret. " And you wish that you 
could tell!" 

Good-night. Schlaf Wohl, J. C. 



io8 



I 



A Night Adventure 

VII 

(To Mrs. Russell, Thornhill) 

Chelsea, November 28, 1856 

MY DARLING, ... Oh, such a fright I got last 
Friday morning ! Thursday night was my 
second night of something like human sleep. I had 
fallen asleep about three, and was still sleeping off and 
on between six and seven, when I was startled wide 
awake by a heavy fall in the room directly over mine 
(Mr. C.'s bedroom) ; I knew in the very act of waking, 
that it was no table or inanimate thing that made the 
sound, but a human body, — Mr. C.'s of course — the only 
human body there ! What could I think but that he 
had got up ill, and fallen down in a fit? I threw myself 
out of bed, tore open my door and began to run upstairs. 
But my legs got paralysed : I leant against the wall and 
screamed. In answer to my scream, came Mr. C's 
voice, calling out quite jolly, " It's nothing, my Dear ! 
Go back to your bed ; it is a mistake : I will be there 
presently ! '' Back to bed I crept ; and then if it had 
been in my constitution to take a fit of hysterics I 
should have taken it ! As it was I lay and trembled 
and my teeth chattered, and when Mr. C. came and 
tried me with some water, I could no more swallow it 
than if I had taken hydrophobia. He had awoke too 
early, and got up to go down stairs and smoke,^ his 
way of invoking sleep. His room being quite dark, and 
thinking to put on his stockings and shoes before getting 
himself a light, he had gone to sit down on .a chair at 
the bottom of his bed, where these articles are kept; 

1 Carlyle was not permitted to smoke in his own bedroom. 
109 



Philosopher sits on Nothing 

but mistaking the locality, he had sat down on nothing 
at all ! and fell smack his whole length on the floor, — 
not hurting himself in the least, for a wonder. This 
adventure has pretty well taken the conceit out of me 
on the score of courage, presence of mind, and all that ! 
Mercy! what would have become of Dr. Russell if he had 
had a Wife who stood still and screa?ned, that time when 
he was so dangerously ill? . . , 

Do be so good as give Mr. Dobbie^an emphatic kiss 
for me ; for if Mr. C. become unendurable with his 
eternal '^ Frederick,'''' I intend running away with Mr. 
Dobbie ! — to the backwoods, or wherever he likes. — 
God bless you, my dear, kind true, woman. Give my 
love to your Husband. — Yours ever affectionately, 

Jane Carlyle 

Have you got the new little dog? I have a whistle 
for him. 

1 The Rev. Mr. Dobbie (Mrs. Russell's father), then in his 8oth 
year. 



IIO 



VI 

"RICH EYES" 

Edward FitzGerald rejoices in Frederic Tennyson's 
great cricket match ^:> ^> ^^:> ^^^ 

BouLGE Hall, Woodbridge, March 26, 1841 

MY DEAR THOMPSON, — I had a long letter from 
Morton the other day — he is still luxuriating 
at Venice. Also a letter from Frederic Tennyson, who 
has been in Sicily, etc., and is much distracted between 
enjoyment of those climates and annoyance from Fleas. 
These two men are to be at Rome together soon ; so if 
anyone wants to go to Rome, now is a good time. I wish 
I was there. 

F. Tennyson says that he and a party of Englishmen 
fought a cricket match with the crew of the Bellerophon 
on the ParthejiopcEan hills (query about the correctness 
of this — I quote from memory), and sacked the sailors 
by 90 runs. 

Is not this pleasant? — the notion of good English 
blood striving in worn-out Italy. I like that such men 
as Frederic should be abroad : so strong, haughty and 
passionate. They keep up the English character 
abroad. . . . 

Ill 



Antidotes to Carlyle 

Have you read poor Carlyle's raving book about 
heroes ? Of course you have or I would ask you to buy 
my copy. I don't like to live with it in the house. It 
smoulders. He ought to be laughed at a little. But it 
is pleasant to retire to the Tale of a Tub, Tristram 
Shandy, and Horace Walpole, after being tossed on his 
canvas waves. This is blasphemy. Dibdin Pitt of the 
Coburg could enact one of his heroes. . . . 



The Rev. Sydney Smith describes his adventures to 
his daughter ^^:> ^^^ ^^:> ^^:> ^^ 

Dece?nber ii, 1835 

MY DEAREST CHILD, — Few are the adventures 
of a Canon travelling gently over good roads to 
his benefice. In my way to Reading, I had, for my com- 
panion, the Mayor of Bristol when I preached that 
sermon in favour of the Cathohcs. He recognised me, 
and we did very well together. I was terribly afraid that 
he would stop at the same inn, and that I should have 
the delight of his society for the evening ; but he (thank 
God !) stopped at the Crown, as a loyal man, and I, as a 
rude one, went on to the Bear. Civil waiters, wax 
candles, and off again the next morning, with my friend 
and Sir W. W , a very shrewd, clever, coarse, enter- 
taining man, with whom I skirmished a V amiable all the 
way to Bath. At Bath, candles still more waxen, and 
waiters still more profound. Being, since my travels, 
very much gallicised in my character, I ordered a pint of 
claret ; I found it incomparably the best wine I ever 
tasted ; it disappeared with a rapidity which surprises 
me even at this distance of time. The next morning, in 
the coach by eight, with a handsome valetudinarian lady, 
112 



Boz in Dublin 

upon whom the coach produced the same effect as a steam- 
packet would do. I proposed weak warm brandy and 
water ; she thought, at first, it would produce inflamma- 
tion of the stomach, but presently requested to have it 
warm and not weak, and she took it to the last drop, as 
I did the claret. All well here. God bless you, dearest 
child! Love to Holland. Sydney Smith 



Charles Dickens meets a small Irish Boy -^^ ^^> 
(To Miss Hogarth) 

Morrison's Hotel, Dublin 

Wednesday, August 25, 1858 

I BEGIN my letter to you to-day, though I don't know 
when I may send it off. We had a very good 
house last night. For " Little Dombey," this morning, 

j we have an immense stall let — already more than two 

I hundred — and people are now fighting in the agent's 
shop to take more. They were a highly excitable audi- 
ence last night, but they certainly did not comprehend — 

l| internally and intellectually comprehend — "The Chimes'" 
as a London audience do. I am quite sure of it. I very 
much doubt the Irish capacity of receiving the pathetic ; 

I but of their quickness as to the humorous there can be 
no doubt. I shall see how they go along with little 
Paul, in his death, presently. 

We meant, as I said in a letter to Katie, to go to 
Queenstown yesterday and bask on the seashore. But 

I there is always so much to do that we couldn't manage it 
after all. We expect a tremendous house to-morrow 

I night as well as to-day. I have become a wonderful 
Irishman — must play an Irish part some day — and 
1 113 



Arthur's Eccentricities 

Arthur's only relaxation is when I enact "John and the 
Boots," which I consequently do enact all day long. 
The papers are full of remarks upon my white tie, and 
describe it as being of enormous size, which is a wonder- 
ful delusion, because, as you very well know, it is a small 
tie. Generally, I am happy to report, the Emerald press 
is in favour of my appearance, and likes my eyes. But 
one gentleman comes out with a letter at Cork, wherein 
he says that although only forty-six I look like an old 
man. He is a rum customer, I think. 

John has given it up altogether as to rivalry with the 
Boots, and did not come into my room this morning 
at all. Boots appeared triumphant and alone. He 
was waiting for me at the hotel-door last night. 
" Whaa't sart of a hoose, sur? " he asked me. " Capital." 
" The Lard be praised fur the 'onor o' Dooblin! " 

Arthur buys bad apples in the street and brings them 
home and doesn't eat them, and then I am obliged to 
put them in the balcony because they make the room 
smell faint. Also he meets countrymen with honeycomb 
on their heads, and leads them (by the button-hole when 
they have one) to this gorgeous establishment, and re- 
quests the bar to buy honeycomb for his breakfast ; then 
it stands upon the sideboard uncovered and the flies fall 
into it. He buys owls, too, and castles, and other horrible 
objects, made in bog-oak ; and he is perpetually snipping 
pieces out of newspapers and sending them all over the 
world. While I am reading, he conducts the corre- 
spondence, and his great delight is to show me seventeen 
or eighteen letters when I come, exhausted, into the 
retiring-place. 

Berry has not got into any particular trouble for forty- 
eight hours, except that he is all over boils. I have 
prescribed the yeast, but ineffectually. It is indeed a 
114 



Young Ireland and the Inimitable 

sight to see him and John sitting in pay-boxes, and 
surveying Ireland out of pigeon-holes. 

Saine evefiing before bedtivie 

Everybody was at "Little Dombey'' to-day, and although 
I had some little difficulty to work them up in conse- 
quence of the excessive crowding of the place, and the 
difficulty of shaking the people into their seats, the 
effect was unmistakable and profound. The crying was 
universal, and they were extraordinarily affected. There 
is no doubt we could stay here a week with that one 
reading, and fill the place every night. Hundreds of 
people have been there to-night, under the impression 
that it would come off" again. It was a most decided 
and complete success. 

Here follows a dialogue (but it requires imitation), 
which I had yesterday morning with a little boy of the 
house — landlord's son, I suppose — about Plorn's age. 
I am sitting on the sofa writing, and find him sitting 
beside me. 

Inimitable. Holloa, old chap. 

Young Irelajid. Hal-loo ! 

Inimitable (in his delightful way). What a nice old 
fellow you are. I am very fond of little boys. 

Young Ireland. Air yer? Ye'r right. 

Inimitable. What do you learn, old fellow? 

Yoimg Ireland {very intent on Inijnitable, and always 
childish^ except in his brogue). I lairn wureds of three 
sillibils, and wureds of two sillibils, and wureds of one 
silMbil. 

Ini7nitable {gaily). Get out, you humbug! You learn 
only words of one syllable. 

Young Irelafid {laughs heartily) . You may say that it 
is mostly wureds of one sillil^ii]. 



" Them two old Paddies " 

Inhiiitable. Can you write ? 

Yoieng h'eland. Not yet. Things comes by deegrays. 

hiimitable. Can you cipher? 

Young Ireland {very quickly') . Wha'at's that ? 

Ifihnitable. Can you make figures ? 

Yo7tng Ireland. I can make a nought, which is not 
asy, being roond. 

Ijiijnitable. I say, old boy, wasn^t it you I saw on 
Sunday morning in the hall, in a soldier's cap? You 
know — in a soldier's cap ? 

Yoimg Ireland {cogitating deeply). Was it a very good 
cap? 

Inimitable. Yes. 

Yoimg Ireland. Did it fit unkommon ? 

Inimitable. Yes. 

Young Ireland. Dat was me ! 

There are two stupid old louts at the room, to 
show people into their places, whom John calls 
" them two old Paddies," and of whom he says, that he 
" never see nothing like them (snigger) hold idiots " 
(snigger). They bow and walk backwards before the 
grandees, and our men hustle them while they are 
doing it. 

We walked out last night, with the intention of going 
to the theatre ; but the Piccolomini Establishment (they 
were doing the Lucid) looked so horribly like a very bad 
jail, and the Queen's looked so blackguardly, that we 
came back again, and went to bed. I seem to be always 
either in a railway carriage, or reading, or going to bed. 
I get so knocked up, whenever I have a minute to re- 
member it, that then I go to bed as a matter of course. 
I am looking forward to the last Irish reading on Thurs- 
day, with great impatience. But when we shall have 
turned this week, once knocked off Belfast, I shall see 
ii6 



Down a Copper Mine 

land, and shall (like poor Timber in the days of old) 
*'keep up a good heart." 

Ever, my dearest Georgy, most affectionately. 



Shirley Brooks extols Cornwall to Mr. W. P. Frith, R.A. 

Esplanade, Penzance 
Saturday, September 21, 1867 

MY DEAR COTTLE, — " Behold ^em 'ere ! " " 'Ere " 
is not Penzance, but Ilfracombe, Devonshire. The 
above represents feebly (I am now critical in art, for I 
have got the very house occupied last year by Tom 
Taylor) the stunning hotel at Penzance where we were 
exceedingly comfortable for some days, and whence we 
made " excrescences " to the Land's End and other 
wonderful works of nature. " It is a holy thing," said 
Mr. Squeers, '' to be in a state of nature." 

This reminds me that we went down a copper mine, 
half a mile under the sea, by a wire rope tied to a car 
about as big as a coal-scuttle — a sensation ! — but a 
previous sensation was reading in the guide-book, 
" Before descending you must divest yourself of every 

article of apparel, and " Here I closed the book, 

and put it away as S — b — ian; but learning that you 
could compromise by taking off your coat and tucking 
up your trousers, and putting on a miner's dress, white, 
splashed with yellow mud, I reconsidered the subject. 
You should have seen Mrs. Shirley in a long white thing 
like a vast nightgown, and with a thick yellow dread- 
nought ! But she did the perilous descent gallantly, 
commending her soul to the supreme powers, and the 
splashes through the crevices to the devil (I believe). 

The Duke of Cornwall, Plymouth, is a splendid new 
117 



Cornish Phenomena 

hotel, with all the comforts, and close to the train. We 
did all the sights, including the Breakwater, which is not 
worth doing. But the coast scenery of both Cornwall 
and Devon is glorious. Very likely I am telling you 
what you know, for Reynolds was born in Devonshire, 
and you might have been born anywhere you chose. 
We have done an awful lot, and I am glad to have got 
to a resting-place for a week in this love-ley place. We 
are on the top of a high hill, and see Lundy Isle, Wales, 
Jerusalem, and Madagascar ; and to-day we are going to 
have squab-pie and junket. 

From Du Maurier I glean that you are all a happy 
colony; and I hope to see you after we get back. At 
Helston there were two pictures, regarded as household 
treasures. One was " Coming of Age,^' and the other the 
" Sports in the Olden Time.'" I obtained much kudos 
by saying that I knew the painter — that I had stood for 
the young heir ; and the grandad in . the other was 
Spurgeon, to whom / had introduced you when you 
persuaded him to sit to you. This will become a Cornish 
legend. At Plymouth Station there is a three-legged cat, 
— not a Manx cat (good), but one whose leg was cut off by 
a railway-engine. This is the most remarkable thing I 
have seen, except the Devil's Bellows at Kinance Bay, 
which is more remarkable ; but I do not know why. 

I have had my hair cut by a barber called Petherwick 
Peninluma, and I have had my old shoes mended for 
IS. 9d. and they are more comfortable than my new ones, 
which cost a guinea. Such, my Cottle, is a lesson that 
should teach us, how little real value there is in money, 
on which, moreover. Providence sets no store, or He 

would not bestow it on the unworthy, like ; but no 

matter, I am in charity with all mankind. My address 

is 5, Castle Terrace, Ilfracombe. Give us a hail! My 

u8 



Shirley Brooks's Good Joke 

wife says I have taken her " out of the world.'' She eats 
well, however, for an angel. — Ever faithfully yours, 

Shirley Brooks 

I made a good joke. We had struggled up a steep 
mountain, and I rested at a tree, and asked " why it 
was like a hospital counterpane." They gave it up with 
abuse. " Because it's on the top of the 'ill." Wit, you 
see, does not depend upon locality. 



Charles Lamb at the Lakes ^vr^*- ^^::> ^i^^- 'Qy 



M 



London, Septeinber 24, 1802 

Y DEAR MANNING,— Since the date of my last 
letter I have been a traveller. A strong desire 
seized me of visiting remote regions. My first impulse 
was to go and see Paris. It was a trivial objection to my 
aspiring mind, that I did not understand a word of the 
language, since I certainly intend some time in my life 
to see Paris, and equally certainly never intend to learn 
the language ; therefore that could be no objection. 
However, I am very glad I did not go, because you had 
left Paris (I see) before I could have set out. I believe, 
Stoddart promising to go with me another year prevented 
that plan. My next scheme (for to my restless, ambitious 
mind London was become a bed of thorns) was to visit 
the far-farmed Peak in Derbyshire, where the Devil sits, 
they say, without breeches. This my purer mind re- 
jected as indelicate. And my final resolve was a tour 
to the Lakes. I set out with Mary to Keswick, without 
giving Coleridge any notice ; for my time being precious 
did not admit of it. He received us with all the 
hospitality in the world, and gave up his time to show 
119 



" Fine old fellows, Skiddaw, etc." 

us all the wonders of the country. He dwells upon a 
small hill by the side of Keswick, in a comfortable house, 
quite enveloped on all sides by a net of mountains : 
great floundering bears and monsters they seemed, all 
couchant and asleep. We got in in the evening, travel- 
ling in a post-chaise from Penrith, in the midst of a 
gorgeous sunshine, which transmuted all the mountains 
into colours, purple, etc. etc. We thought we had got 
into fairyland. But that went off (as it never came again 
— while we stayed we had no more fine sunsets) ; and 
we entered Coleridge's comfortable study just in the 
dusk, when the mountains were all dark with clouds 
upon their heads. Such an impression I never received 
from objects of sight before, nor do I suppose I can ever 
again. Glorious creatures, fine old fellows, Skiddaw, 
etc. I never shall forget ye, how ye lay about that 
night, like an intrenchment ; gone to bed, as it seemed 
for the night, but promising that ye were to be seen in 
the morning. Coleridge had got a blazing fire in his 
study; which is a large, antique, ill-shaped room, with 
an old-fashioned organ, never played upon, big enough 
for a church, shelves of scattered folios, an ^olian harp, 
and an old sofa, half-bed, etc. And all looking out upon 
the last fading view of Skiddaw and his broad-breasted 
brethren: what a night! Here we stayed three full 
weeks, in which time I visited Wordsworth's cottage, 
where we stayed a day or two with the Clarksons (good 
people and most hospitable, at whose house we tarried 
one day and night), and saw Lloyd. The Wordsworths 
were gone to Calais. They have since been in London 
and passed much time with us : he is now gone into 
Yorkshire to be married. So we have seen Keswick, 
Grasmere, Ambleside, Ulswater (where the Clarksons 
live), and a place at the other end of Ulswater — I forget 

120 



Lamb discovers the Romantic 

the name — to which we travelled on a very sultry day, 
over the middle of Helvellyn. We have clambered up 
to the top of Skiddaw, and I have waded up the bed of 
Lodore. In fine, I have satisfied myself, that there is 
such a thing as that which tourists call romantic, which 
I very much suspected before : they make such a 
' spluttering about it, and toss their splendid epithets 
around them, till they give as dim a light as at four 

- o'clock next morning the lamps do after an illumination. 
i Mary was excessively tired, when she got about half-way 
■ up Skiddaw, but we came to a cold rill (than which 

nothing can be imagined more cold, running over cold 
stones), and with the reinforcement of a draught of cold 

- water she surmounted it most manfully. Oh, its fine 
•I black head, and the bleak air atop of it, with a prospect 
j of mountains all about, and about, making you giddy ; 
• and then Scotland afar off, and the border countries so 

famous in song and ballad! It was a day that will stand 

' out, like a mountain, I am sure, in my life. But I am 

returned (I have now been come home near three weeks 

— I was a month out), and you cannot conceive the 

' degradation I felt at first, from being accustomed to 

'i wander free as air among mountains, and bathe in rivers 

j without being controlled by any one, to come home and 

I work. I felt very little. I had been dreaming I was a 

I very great man. But that is going olT, and I find I shall 

I conform in time to that state of life to which it has 

j pleased God to call me. Besides, after all, Fleet-Street 

I and the Strand are better places to live in for good and 

; all than among Skiddaw. Still, I turn back to those 

great places where I wandered about, participating in 

their greatness. After all, I could not live in Skiddaw. 

I could spend a year — two, three years' — among them, 

but I must have a prospect of seeing Fleet-Street at the 

121 



A Diabolical Resolution 

end of that time, or I should mope and pine away, I 
know. Still, Skiddaw is a fine creature. My habits 
are changing, I think : i.e. from drunk to sober. Whether 
I shall be happier or not remains to be proved. I shall 
certainly be more happy in a morning ; but whether I 
shall not sacrifice the fat, and the marrow, and the 
kidneys, i.e. the night, the glorious care-drowning night, i 
that heals all our wrongs, pours wine into our mortifica- 
tions, changes the scene from indifferent and flat to 
bright and brilliant! — O Manning, if I should have 
formed a diabolical resolution, by the time you come to 
England, of not admitting any spirituous liquors into my 
house, will you be my guest on such shameworthy terms ? 
Is life, with such limitations, worth trying? The truth 
is, that my liquors bring a nest of friendly harpies about 
my house, who consume me. This is a pitiful tale to be 
read at St. Gothard ; but it is just now nearest my heart. 
Fenwick is a ruined man. He is hiding himself from 
his creditors, and has sent his wife and children into the 
country. Fell, my other drunken companion (that has 
been: 7iam hie ccBstiis artemque repond)^ is turned 
editor of a "Naval Chronicle." Godwin (with a pitiful 
artificial wife) continues a steady friend, though the same 
facility does not remain of visiting him often. That ) 
Bitch has detached Marshall from his house, Marshall 
the man who went to sleep when the Ancient Mariner 
was reading: the old, steady, unalterable friend of the 
Professor. Holcroft is not yet come to town. I expect 
to see him, and will deliver your message. How I hate 
this part of a letter. Things come crowding in to say, 
and no room for 'em. Some things are too little to be 
told, i.e. to have a preference ; some are too big and 
circumstantial. Thanks for yours, which was most 
delicious. Would I had been with you, benighted etc 

122 



Oliver Goldsmith Arrested 

I fear my head is turned with wandering. I shall never 
be the same acquiescent being. Farewell; write again 
quickly, for I shall not like to hazard a letter, not know- 
ing where the fates have carried you. Farewell, my 
dear fellow. C. Lamb 



Oliver Goldsmith instructs his Uncle Contarine in 
Dutch manners "^^ ^^:> ^:> ^^ ^^ 

Leyden [1754] 

DEAR SIR, — I suppose by this time I am accused 
of either neglect or ingratitude, and my silence 
imputed to my usual slowness of writing. But believe 
me, Sir, when I say, that till now I had not an op- 
portunity of sitting down with that ease of mind which 
writing required. You may see by the top of the letter 
that I am at Leyden ; but of my journey hither you 
must be informed. Some time after the receipt of your 
last, I embarked for Bordeaux, on board a Scotch ship 
called the St A?idrews, Capt. John Wall, master. 
The ship made a tolerable appearance, and as another 
inducement, I was let to know that six agreeable 
passengers were to be my company. Well, we were 
but two days at sea when a storm drove us into a city 
of England called Newcastle-on-Tyne. We all went 
ashore to refresh us after the fatigue of our voyage. 
Seven men and I were one day on shore, and on the 
following evening as we were all very merry, the room 
door bursts open : enters a sergeant and twelve grenadiers 
with their bayonets screwed ; and puts all under king^s 
arrest. It seems my company were Scotchmen in the 
French service, and had been in Scotland to enlist 
soldiers for the French army. I endeavoured all I 
123 



A Wanderer in Holland 

could to prove my innocence ; however, I remained in 
prison with the rest a fortnight, and with difficulty got 
oflf even then. Dear Sir, keep this all a secret, or at 
least say it was for debt ; for if it were once known 
at the University, I should hardly get a degree. But 
hear how Providence interposed in my favour; the ship 
was gone on to Bordeaux before I got from prison, and 
was wrecked at the mouth of the Garonne, and every 
one of the crew were drowned. It happened the last 
great storm. There was a ship at that time ready for 
Holland. I embarked, and in nine days, thank my 
God, I arrived safe at Rotterdam; whence I travelled 
by land to Leyden ; and whence I now write. 

You may expect some account of this country, and 
though I am not well qualified for such an undertaking, 
yet shall I endeavour to satisfy some part of your 
expectations. Nothing surprises me more than the 
books every day published, descriptive of the manners 
of this country. Any young man who takes it into his 
head to publish his travels, visits the countries he 
intends to describe ; passes through them with as much 
inattention as his valet de chambre ; and consequently 
not having a fund himself to fill a volume, he applies 
to those who wrote before him, and gives us the manners 
of a country, not as he must have seen them, but such 
as they might have been fifty years before. The modern 
Dutchman is quite a different creature from him of 
former times ; he in everything imitates a Frenchman, 
but in his easy disengaged air, which is the result of 
keeping polite company. The Dutchman is vastly cere- 
monious, and is perhaps exactly what a Frenchman 
might have been in the reign of Louis xiv. Such are 
the better bred. But the downright Hollander is one 
of the oddest figures in nature. Upon a head of lank 
124 



Dutch Women and Scotch 

hair he wears a half-cocked narrow hat laced with black 

ribbon : no coat, but seven waistcoats, and nine pairs 
I, of breeches ; so that his hips reach almost up to his 
I arm-pits. This well-clothed vegetable is now fit to see 

company, or make love. But what a pleasing creature 
I is the object of his appetite? Why, she wears a large 
j fur cap with a deal of Flanders lace: for every pair of 

breeches he carries, she puts on two petticoats. 
A Dutch lady burns nothing about her phlegmatic 
I admirer but his tobacco. You must know, Sir, every 

woman carries in her hand a stove with cones in it, 
I which, when she sits, she snugs under her petticoats ; 

and at this chimney dozing Strephon lights his pipe. 
I take it that this continual smoking is what gives the 

man the ruddy healthful complexion, by drawing his 
I superfluous moisture, while the woman, deprived of 

this amusement, overflows with such viscidities as tint 

the complexion, and give that paleness of visage which 
i low fenny grounds and moist air conspire to cause. 
- A Dutch woman and Scotch will well bear an opposition. 
I The one pale and fat, the other lean and ruddy : the 
i one walks as if she were straddling after a go-cart, and 
i the other takes too masculine a stride. I shall not 
j endeavour to deprive either country of its share of 
I beauty ; but must say, that of all objects on earth, an 
'' English farmer's daughter is most charming. Every 
! woman there is a complete beauty, while the higher 

class of women want many of the requisites to make 
[ them even tolerable. Their pleasures here^are very 
, dull, though very various. You may smoke, you may 
i doze ; you may go to the Italian Comedy, as good an 

amusement as either of the former. This entertainment 
I always brings in Harlequin, who is generally a magician, 
1 and in consequence of his diabolical art performs a 

125 



Mixed Canal Company 

thousand tricks on the credulity of the persons of the 
Drama, who are all fools. I have seen the pit in a roar of 
laughter at this humour, when with his sword he touches 
the glass from which another was drinking. It was not 
his face they laughed at, for that was masked. They 
must have seen something vastly queer in the wooden 
sword, that neither I, nor you, Sir, were you there, 
could see. 

In winter, when their canals are frozen, every house 
is forsaken, and all people are on the ice ; sleds 
drawn by horses, and skating, are at that time the 
reigning amusements. 

They have boats here that slide on the ice, and are 
driven by the winds. When they spread all their sails 
they go more than a mile and a half a minute, and their 
motion is so rapid the eye can hardly accompany them. 
Their ordinary manner of travelling is very cheap and 
very convenient : they sail in covered boats drawn by 
horses ; and in these you are sure to meet people of all 
nations. Here the Dutch slumber, the French chatter, 
and the English play at cards. Any man who likes 
company may have them to his taste. For my part I 
generally detached myself from all society, and was 
wholly taken up in observing the face of the country. 
Nothing can equal its beauty ; wherever I turn my eye, 



fine houses, elegant gardens, statues, grottos, vistas, 
presented themselves ; but when you enter their towns 
you are charmed beyond description. No misery is to 
be seen here ; every one is usefully employed. 

Scotland and this country bear the highest contrast. 
There hills and rocks intercept every prospect : here 'tis 
all continued plain. There you might see a well | 
dressed duchess issuing from a dirty close; and here 
a dirty Dutchman inhabiting a palace. The Scotch 
126 



A Dutchman in his House 

may be compared to a tulip planted in dung; but I 
never see a Dutchman in his own house but I think of 
a magnificent Egyptian temple dedicated to an ox. 
Physic is by no means taught here so well as in 
Edinburgh ; and in all Leyden there are but four 
British students, owing to all necessaries being so 
extremely dear, and the professors so very lazy (the 
chemical professor excepted,) that we don't much care 
to come hither. I am not certain how long my stay 
I here may be ; however I expect to have the happiness 
, of seeing you at Kilmore, if I can, next March. 

Direct to me, if I am honoured with a letter from 
you, to Madame Diallion's at Leyden. 

Thou best of men, may Heaven guard and preserve 
.1 you, and those you love. Oliver Goldsmith 

John Keats describes Winchester ^^:> ^o ^:> 

] Winchester, Septeinber 22, 18 19 

\ A/TY DEAR REYNOLDS, — ! was very glad to 

1 iVl hear from Woodhouse that you would meet in 

the country. I hope you will pass some pleasant time 

together. Which I wish to make pleasanter by a brace 

of letters, very highly to be estimated, as really I have 

\ had very bad luck with this sort of game this season. 

I " kepen in solitarinesse," for Brown has gone a-visiting. 

I am surprised myself at the pleasure I live alone in. I 

can give you no news of the place here, or any other 

idea of it but what I have to this effect written to George. 

Yesterday I say to him was a grand day for Winchester. 

They elected a Mayor. It was indeed high time the 

place should receive some sort of excitement. 

There was nothing going on : all asleep : not an old 
127 



Discreet Winchester 

maid's sedan returning from a card-party : and if any old 
women got tipsy at Cliristenings they did not expose it 
in tlie streets. Tlie first night tho' of our arrival here 
there was a slight uproar took place at about ten o' the 
Clock. 

We heard distinctly a noise patting down the High 
Street as of a walking cane of the good old Dowager 
breed ; and a little minute after we heard a less voice 
observe, " What a noise the ferril made — it must be loose." 

Brown wanted to call the constables, but I observed it 
was only a little breeze, and would soon pass over. 

The side streets here are excessively maiden-ladylike : 
the door-steps always fresh from the flannel. 

The knockers have a staid, serious, nay almost awful 
quietness about them. I never saw so quiet a collection 
of Lions' and Rams' heads. 

The doors are most part black, with a little brass 
handle just abo.ve the keyhole, so that in Winchester a 
man may very quietly shut himself out of his own house. 
How beautiful the season is now — How fine the air — a 
temperate sharpness about it. Really, without joking, 
chaste weather — Dian skies — I never liked stubble-field 
so much as now — Aye better than the chilly green of the 
Spring. Somehow, a stubble-field looks warm — in the ! 
same way that some pictures look warm. 

This struck me so much in my Sunday's walk that I 
composed upon it. I hope you are better employed than 
in gaping after weather. I have been at different times 
so happy as not to know what weather it was — No, I will 
not copy a parcel of verses. 

I always somehow associate Chatterton with autumn. 
He is the purest writer in the English Language. He 
has no French idiom or particles, like Chaucer — 'tis 
genuine English Idiom in English words. 
128 



The Prettiest " Ees " 

I have given up Hyperion — there were too many Mil- 
tonic inversions in it — Miltonic verse cannot be written, 
but in an artful, or rather, artistes humour. 

I wish to give myself up to other sensations. English 
ought to be kept up. It may be interesting to you to pick 
out some lines from Hyperion and put a mark + to the 
false beauty proceeding from art, and one || to the true 
voice of feeling. 

Upon my souPtwas imagination — I cannot make the 
distinction — Every now and then there is a Miltonic into- 
nation — But I cannot make the division properly. . . . 

I shall beg leave to have a third opinion in the first dis- 
cussion you have with Woodhouse — just half-way, between 
both. You know I will not give up my argument — In my 
walk to-day I stoop'd under a railing that lay across my 
path, and asked myself, " Why I did not get over? " " Be- 
cause," answered I, " no one wanted to force you under." 

I would give a guinea to be a reasonable man — good 
sound sense — a says what he thinks and does what he 
says man — and did not take snuff. They say men near 
death, however mad they may have been, come to their 
senses. I hope I shall here, in this letter; there is a 
decent space to be very sensible in ; many a good proverb 
has been in less — nay, I have heard of the statutes at large 
being changed into the statutes at small and printed for 
a watch paper. Your sisters, by this time, must have got 
the Devonshire " ees " — short ees, you know 'em — they 
are the prettiest ees in the language. O, how I admire the 
middle-sized, delicate, Devonshire girls of about fifteen. 
There was one at an inn door holding a quartern of brandy 
— the very thought of her kept me warm a whole stage — 
and a sixteen-miler too. " You'll pardon me for being 
jocular." — Ever your affectionate friend, 

John Keats. 
K 129 



Helvellyn and Lodore 
John Keats and Charles Brown discover Scotland -^^^ 

I 
(To Thomas Keats) 

Keswick, /?^;^^ 29, 1818 

MY DEAR TOM, — I cannot make my journal as 
distinct and actual as I could wish, from having 
been engaged in writing to George, and therefore I must 
tell you, without circumstance, that we proceeded from 
Ambleside to Rydal, saw the waterfalls there, and called 
on Wordsworth who was not at home, nor was any one 
of his family. I wrote a note and left it on the mantel-piece. 

Thence on we came to the foot of Helvellyn, where we 
slept, but could not ascend it for the mist. 

I must mention that from Rydal we passed Thirlswater, 
and a fine pass in the Mountains — from Helvellyn we came 
to Keswick on Derwent Water. The approach to Derwent 
Water surpassed Windermere — it is richly wooded, and 
shut in with rich-toned mountains. 

From Helvellyn to Keswick was eight miles to break- 
fast, after which we took a complete circuit of the Lake, 
going about ten miles, and seeing on our way the Fall of 
Lowdore. 

I had an easy climb among the streams, about the 
fragments of Rocks, and should have got I think to the 
summit, but unfortunately I was damped by slipping one 
leg into a squashy hole. 

There is no great body of water, but the accompaniment 
is delightful ; for it oozes out from a cleft in perpendicular 
Rocks, all fledged with ash and other beautiful trees. It 
is a strange thing how they got there. At the south end 
of the Lake the Mountains of Borrowdale are perhaps as 
fine as anything v/e have seen. 
130 



Skiddaw and Rydal Mount 

On our return from this circuit we ordered dinner, and 
set forth about a mile and a half on the Penrith road, to 
see the Druid temple. We had a fag up hill, rather too 
near dinner-time, which was rendered void by the gratifi- 
cation of seeing those aged stones on a gentle rise 
in the midst of the Mountains, which at that time dark- 
ened all around, except at the fresh opening of the Vale 
of St. John. We went to bed rather fatigued, but not so 
much so as to hinder us getting up this morning to Mount 
Skiddaw. 

It promised all along to be fair, and we had fagged and 
tugged nearly to the top, when, at half-past six, there came 
a Mist upon us, and shut out the view. 

We did not, however, lose anything by it ; we were high 
enough without mist to see the coast of Scotland — the 
Irish Sea — the hills beyond Lancaster — and nearly all 
the large ones of Cumberland and Westmoreland, particu- 
larly Helvellyn and Scawfell. 

It grew colder and colder as we ascended, and we were 
glad, at about three parts of the way, to taste a little rum 
which the Guide brought with him, mixed, mind ye, with 
Mountain water. 

I took two glasses going and one returning. It is 
about six miles from where I am writing to the top. So 
we have walked ten miles before breakfast to-day. We 
went up with two others, very good sort of fellows. All felt, 
on arising into the cold air, that same elevation which 
a cold bath gives one — I felt as if I were going to a 
Tournament. 

Wordsworth's house is situated just on the rise of the 
foot of Mount Rydal ; his parlour-window looks directly 
down Windermere. I do not think I told you how fine 
the Vale of Grasmere is, and how I discovered "the 
ancient woman seated on Helm Crag.'' We shall pro- 
131 



"One Exquisite Mouth" 

ceed immediately to Carlisle, intending to enter Scotland 
on the 1st of July viA. 

July I, 1818. — We are this morning at Carhsle. 
After Skiddaw, we walked to Ireby, the oldest market 
town in Cumberland, where we were greatly amused by 
a country dancing-school holden at the Tun, it was 
indeed " no new cotillion fresh from France." No, they 
kickit and jumpit with mettle extraordinary, and whiskit 
and friskit, and toed it, and go'd it, and twirPd it, and 
whirPd it, and stamped it, and sweated it, tattooing the 
floor like mad. The difference between our country 
dances and these Scottish figures is about the same as 
leisurely stirring a cup o^ Tea and beating up a batter- 
pudding. 

I was extremely gratified to think that, if I had pleasures 
they knew nothing of, they had also some into which I could 
not possibly enter. 

I hope I shall not return without having got the High- 
land fling. 

There was as fine a row of boys and girls as you ever 
saw ; some beautiful faces, and one exquisite mouth. 

I never felt so near the glory of Patriotism, the glory of 
making by any means a country happier. 

This is what I like better than scenery. I fear our con- 
tinued moving from place to place will prevent our be- 
coming learned in village affairs ; we are mere creatures 
of Rivers, Lakes, and Mountains. Our yesterday's jour- 
ney was from Ireby to Wigton, and from Wigton to 
Carlisle. 

The Cathedral does not appear very fine — the Castle is 
very ancient, and of brick. The City is very various — 
old white-washed narrow streets — broad red-brick ones 
more modern — I will tell you anon whether the inside of 
the cathedral is worth looking at. 
132 



In Praise of Burns 

It is built of sandy red stone or Brick. 

We have now walked 114 miles, and are merely a little 
tired in the thighs and a little blistered. 

We shall ride 38 miles to Dumfries, when we shall 
linger awhile about Nithsdale and Galloway. I have 
written two letters to Liverpool. I found a letter from 
sister George ; very delightful indeed : I shall preserve it 
in the bottom of my knapsack for you. 

The town, the churchyard, and the setting sun. 

The Clouds, the trees, the rounded hills all seem, • 
Though beautiful, cold — strange — as in a dream, 

I dreamed, long ago, now new begun, 

The short-liv'd, paly summer is but won 
From winter's ague, for one hour's gleam ; 
Though sapphire — warm, their stars do never beam : 

All is cold Beauty ; pain is never done : 

For who has mind to relish, Minos-wise, 
The real of beauty, free from that dead hue, 

Sickly imagination, and sick pride. 
Cast wan upon it! Burns 1 with honour due, 
I oft have honour'd thee. Great shadow, hide 

Thy face ; I sin against thy native skies. 

July 2 181 8. — You will see by this sonnet that I am at 
Dumfries. We have dined in Scotland. Burns's tomb is 
in the Churchyard corner, not very much to my taste, 
though on a scale large enough to show they wanted to 
honour him. 

Mrs. Burns lives in this place ; most likely we shall see 
her to-morrow. This sonnet I have written in a strange 
mood, half-asleep. I know not how it is, the clouds, 
the sky, the houses, all seem anti-Grecian and anti- 
Charlemagnish. I will endeavour to get rid of my preju- 
dices and tell you fairly about the Scotch. 

In Devonshire they say, " Well, where be ye going ? " 
Here it is, "How is it wi' yourseP?" A man on the 



"Very Pretty Drink" 

Coach said the horses took a HelHsh heap o' drivin' ; the 
same fellow pointed out Burns's tomb with a deal of 
life — " There ! de ye see it, amang the trees — white, wi' a 
roond tap?" The first well-dressed Scotchman we had 
any conversation with, to our surprise, confessed himself 
a Deist. The careful manner of delivering his opinions, 
not before he had received several encouraging hints from 
us, was very amusing. 

Yesterday was an immense horse-fair at Dumfries, so 
that we met numbers of men and women on the road ; 
the women nearly all barefoot, with their shoes and 
clean stockings in hand, ready to put on and look smart 
in the towns. 

There are plenty of wretched cottages whose smoke 
has no outlet but by the door. We have now begun 
upon Whisky, called here " whuskey," — very smart stuif 
it is. Mixed like our liquors, with sugar and water, 'tis 
called toddy; very pretty drink, and much praised by 
Burns. 

II 

Maybole,/?^/^ II, 1818 

MY DEAR REYNOLDS, —We were talking on 
different and indifferent things when, on a 
sudden, we turned a corner upon the immediate country 
of Ayr — the sight was as rich as possible. 

I had no Conception that the native place of Burns 
was so beautiful — the idea I had was more desolate, 
his " Rigs of Barley " seemed always to me but a few 
strips of Green on a cold hill — O prejudice ! it was as 
rich as Devon — I endeavoured to drink in the Prospect, 
that I might spin it out to you, as the Silkworm makes 
silk from Mulberry leaves — I cannot recollect it. Besides 
all the Beauty, there were the mountains of Arran Isle, 
134 



Letter-opening Humour 

black and huge over the sea. We came down upon 
everything suddenly — there were in our way the " Bonny 
Doon," with the Brig that Tain o' Shanter crossed, Kirk 
Alloway, Burns's Cottage, and the Brigs of Ayr. First we 
stood upon the Bridge across the Doon ; surrounded by 
every Phantasy of green in Tree, Meadow, and Hill, — the 
stream of the Doon, as a Farmer told us, is covered with 
trees " from head to foot " — you know those beautiful 
heaths so fresh against the weather of a summer's 
evening — there was one stretching along behind the 
trees. 

I wish I knew always the humour my friends would 
be in at opening a letter of mine, to suit it to them as 
nearly as possible. I could always find an egg-shell for 
Melancholy, and as for Merriment a Witty humour will 
turn anything to Account. My head is sometimes in such 
a whirl in considering the million likings and antipathies 
of our Moments — that I can get into no settled strain 
in my Letters. My Wig! Burns and sentimentality 
coming across you and Frank Floodgate in the office — 
O Scenery, that thou shouldst be crushed between two 
i Puns! 

As for them I venture the rascalliest in the Scotch 
Region — I hope Brown does not put them punctually 
in his journal — if he does I must sit on the cutty-stool 
all next winter. 

We went to Kirk Alloway — "a Prophet is no Prophet 
in his own Country." We went to the Cottage and took 
some Whiskey. I wrote a sonnet for the mere sake of 
writing some lines under the roof — they are so bad I 
cannot transcribe them. 

The Man at the Cottage was a great Bore with his 
Anecdotes — I hate the rascal — his life consists of fuz, 
fiizzy, fuzziest. He drinks glasses five for the Quarter 
135 



Robbie Revealed 

and twelve for the hour — he is a mahogany-faced old 
Jackass who knew Burns. He ought to have been kicked 
for having cpoken to him. He calls himself "a curious 
old Bitch " — but he is a flat old dog — I should like to 
employ Caliph Vathek to kick him. O the flummery of 
a birthplace ! Cant ! cant ! cant ! 

It is enough to give a spirit the guts-ache. Many a true 
word, they say, is spoken in jest — this may be because his 
gab hindered my sublimity : the flat dog made me write a 
flat sonnet. 

My dear Reynolds — I cannot write about scenery and 
visitings — Fancy is indeed less than a present palpable 
reality, but it is greater than remembrance — you would 
lift your eyes from Homer only to see close before you 
the real Isle of Tenedos — you would rather read Homer 
afterwards than remember yourself. 

One song of Burns's is of more worth to you than all 
I could think for a whole year in his native country. 
His Misery is a dead weight upon the nimbleness of one's 
quill. I tried to forget it — to drink Toddy without any 
Care — to write a merry sonnet ; it won't do — he talked 
with Bitches — he drank with blackguards, he was miser- 
able. We can see horribly clear, in the works of such a 
Man, his whole life, as if we were God's spies. What 
were his addresses to Jean in the latter part of his life ? 
I should not speak so to you — yet why not — you are not 
in the same case — you are in the right path, and you shall 
not be deceived. 

I have spoken to you against Marriage, but it was 
general ; the Prospect in those matters has been so blank, 
that I have not been unwilling to die — I would not 
now, for I have inducements to Life — I must see my 
little Nephews in America, and I must see you marry 
your lovely Wife. My sensations are sometimes deadened 
136 



One Imperishable Memory 

for weeks together — but believe me I have more than 
once yearned for the time of your happiness to come, 
as much as I could for myself after the lips of 
Juliet. 

From the tenor of my occasional rhodomontade in chit- 
chat you might have been deceived concerning me on 
these points — upon my soul, I have been getting more 
and more close to you, every day, ever since I knew you, 
and now one of the first pleasures I look to is your happy 
Marriage — the more, since I have felt the pleasure of 
loving a sister in law. I did not think it possible to 
become so much attached in so short a time. 

Things like these, and they are real, have made me 
resolve to have a care of my health — you must be as 
careful. 

The rain has stopped us to-day at the end of a dozen 
miles, yet we hope to see Loch Lomond the day after 
to-morrow ; — I will piddle out my information, as Rice 
says, next winter, at any time when a substitute is wanted 
for Vingt-un. 

We bear the fatigue very well — twenty miles a day in 
general. 

A cloud came over us in getting up Skiddaw — I hope 
to be more lucky in Ben Lomond — and more lucky still 
in Ben Nevis. 

What I think you would enjoy is poking about Ruins, 
sometimes Abbey, sometimes Castle. 

The short stay we made in Ireland has left few 
remembrances — but an old woman in a dog-kennel 
Sedan with a pipe in her Mouth, is what I can never 
forget — I wish I may be able to give you an idea of 
her. Remember me to your Mother and Sisters, and 
4ell your Mother how I hope she will pardon me for 
having a scrap of paper pasted in the Book sent to her. 
137 



The Idle Life 

I was driven on all sides and had not time to call on 
Taylor. So Bailey is coming to Cumberland — Well, if 
you'll let me know where at Inverness, I will call on 
my return and pass a little time with him. I am glad 'tis 
not Scotland. 

Tell my friends I do all I can for them, that is, drink 
their healths in Toddy. Perhaps I may have some lines 
by and by to send you fresh, on your own Letter — Tom 
has a few to show you. — Your affectionate friend, 

John Keats 



Edward FitzGerald on Bedfordshire and the Irish ^::^ 

BouLGE Hall, August 14, 1839 

MY DEAR POLLOCK, — I came here only yesterday, 
and your letter was brought up into my bedroom 
only this morning. What are you doing at Blinfield } 
rusticating there for fun with your family, or are there 
Assizes at such a place ? And is the juvenile party you 
speak of assisting at, one of juvenile depredators ? 
Well, I have been in my dear old Bedfordshire ever 
since I saw you : lounging in the country, lying on 
the banks of the Ouse, smoking, eating copious teas 
(prefaced with beer) in the country pot-houses, and have 
come mourning here : finding an empty house when 1 
expected a full one, and no river Ouse, and no jolly 
boy to whistle the time away with. Such are the little 
disasters and miseries under which I labour: quite 
enough, however, to make one wish to kill oneself at 
times. 

This all comes of having no occupation or sticking ; 
point : so one's thoughts go floating about in a gossamer 
way. At least this is what I hear on all sides. So 
138 



The Waterford Women 

you are going with Monteith's party to Ireland. Well, 
I think you will have a pleasant trip. 

I think I shall probably be in Ireland all September, 
but far away from your doings. 

Not to mention that I shall be on shore and you at sea. 

You will go and see the North Coast, which I am 
anxious to see, and shall not unlikely go too, about the 
time of the equinoctial gales, when such places should 
be seen. , I love Ireland very much, I don't know why : 
the country and the people and all are very homo- 
geneous; mournful and humorous somehow: just like 
their natural music. 

Some of Tommy Moore's Irish Ballads (the airs, I 
mean) are the spirits of the Waterford women made 
music of. You should see them. Pollock, on a Sunday, 
as they come from Chapel in their long, blue cloaks. 
Don't you think that blue eyes and black hair, and 
especially with long, black eyelashes, have a mystery 
about them? 

This day week a dozen poor fellows who had walked 
all the way from the county Mayo into Bedfordshire, 
came up to the door of the Inn where we were fishing, 
and called for small beer. We made their hearts merry 
with good ale ; and they went oif flourishing their sticks, 
hoping all things, enduring all things, and singing some 
loose things. 

You must contrive to see something of the people when 
you go to Ireland : I think that is the great part of the 
fun. You should certainly go some miles in or on an 
Irish Stage Coach, and also on a jaunting Car. I 
never saw Wimpole near Cambridge until the other 
day when I passed it on my way from Bedfordshire. 
Did you ever go and see it? People always told me 
it was not worth seeing: which is another reason for 
139 



Self-Depreciation 

believing nothing people tell one : it is a very noble old 
Queen Anne's building of red brick, in the way of 
Hampton Court (not half so fine, but something in that 
way), looking down two miles of greensward as broad 
as itself, skirted on each side with fine elms. I did not 
go inside, but I believe the pictures are well worth seeing. 
Houses of that style have far more mark and character 
than Woburn and the modern bastard Grecian. I see 
they have built a new chapel at Barnwell — of red brick 
and very well done. I should think Peacock must have 
done it. 

Fancy his being Dean of Barnwell. Cambridge 
looked very ghastly, and the hard-reading, pale, 
dwindled students walking along the Observatory road 
looked as if they were only fit to have their necks 
wrung. I scorn my nerveless carcase more and more 
every day — but there's no good in talking. 

Farewell, my dear Pollock ; I know this is a very 
worthless letter: but it is very good of you to write, 
and I have nothing better to do to-day than to write 
ever such vapid stuff. 

I would ask you if Spedding were still in London, if 
your Yes or No (never very clamorously uttered by you) 
could reach me from Binfield. But even then I should 
not be much the better for the Information. 



Lord Byron informs Mr. Hodgson of his daily 
routine ^:> -^^y ^:> ^=;::> ^;:^ ^^> 

Lisbon, /?^/^' i6, 1809 

THUS far have we pursued our route, and seen all 
sorts of marvellous sights, palaces, convents, etc., — 
which, being to be heard in my friend Hobhouse's forth- 
140 



Portuguese Oaths 



' coming Book of Travels, I shall not anticipate by 

I smuggling any account whatsoever to you in a private 
and clandestine manner. I must just observe, that the 

, village of Cintra in Estremadura is the most beautiful, 

I perhaps, in the world. 

I am very happy here, because I love oranges, and 
talk bad Latin to the monks, who understand it, as it is 
like their own, and I goes into society (with my pocket 
pistols), and I swims in the Tagus all across at once, and 

\ I rides on an ass or a mule, and swears Portuguese, and 
have got a diarrhoea and bites from the mosquitoes. 
But what of that? Comfort must not be expected by 
folks that go a-pleasuring. When the Portuguese are 
\ pertinacious, I say " Carracho ! '' — the great oath of the 
) Grandees, that very well supplies the place of "Damme!" 
— and when dissatisfied with my neighbour, I pronounce 
him " Ambra di merdo." With these two phrases and 
a third, " Avra bouro," which signifies, " Get an ass," I 
am universally understood to be a person of degree and 
a master of languages. How merrily we lives that 
travellers be! — if we had food and raiment. But, in 
sober sadness, anything is better than England, and 
I am infinitely amused with my pilgrimage, as far as it 
has gone. 

To-morrow we start to ride post near 400 miles as far 
as Gibraltar, where we embark for Melita and Byzantium. 
A letter to Malta will find me, or to be forwarded, if I 
am absent. Pray embrace the Drury and Dwyer, and all 
the Ephesians you encounter. I am writing with Butler's 
donative pencil, which makes my bad hand worse. 
Excuse illegibility. 

Hodgson! send me the news, and the deaths and 
defeats, and capital crimes, and the misfortunes of one's 
friends; and let us hear of literary matters, and the 
141 



The Coliseum 

controversies and the criticisms. All this will be 
pleasant — "Suave, mari magno, etc." Talking of that, 
I .have been sea-sick, and sick of the sea. "Adieu. — Yours 
faithfully, etc. 



Shelley in the Coliseum ^^i^ "Qv ^v:^^ •'^^ 
(To Thomas Love Peacock) 

Naples, December 22, 1818 

SINCE I last wrote to you, I have seen the ruins of 
Rome, the Vatican, St. Peter's, and all the miracles 
of ancient and modern art contained in that majestic 
city. The impression of it exceeds anything I have 
experienced in my travels. We stayed there only a 
week, intending to return at the end of February, and 
devote two or three months to its mines of inexhaustible 
contemplation, to which period I refer you for a minute 
account of it. We visited the Forum and the ruins of 
the Coliseum every day. The Coliseum is unlike any 
work of human hands I ever saw before. It is of 
enormous height and circuit, and arches built of massy 
stones are piled on one another, and jut into the blue 
air shattered into the forms of overhanging rocks. It 
has been changed by time into the image of an amphi-- 
theatre of rocky hills overgrown by the wild olive, the 
myrtle, and the fig-tree, and threaded by little paths 
which wind among its ruined stairs and immeasurable 
galleries ; the copse-wood overshadows you as you 
wander through its labyrinths, and the wild weeds of 
this climate of flowers bloom under your feet. The 
arena is covered with grass, and pierces, like the skirts 
of a natural plain, the chasms of the broken arches 
around. But a small part of the exterior circumference 
142 



Wrecks of Rome 

remains ; it is exquisitely light and beautiful, and the 
effect of the perfection of its architecture, adorned with 
ranges of Corinthian pilasters, supporting a bold cornice, 
is such as to diminish the effect of its greatness. The 
interior is all ruin. I can scarcely believe that when 
encrusted with Dorian marble and ornamented by 
columns of Egyptian granite, its effect could have been 
so sublime and so impressive as in its present state. 
It is open to the sky, and it was the clear and sunny 
weather of the end of November in this climate when 
we visited it, day after day. 

Near it is the Arch of Constantine, or rather the Arch 
of Trajan; for the servile and avaricious senate of 
degraded Rome ordered that the monument of his 
predecessor should be demolished in order to dedicate 
one to the Christian reptile, who had crept among the 
blood of his murdered family to the supreme power. 
It is exquisitely beautiful and perfect. The Forum is 
a plain in the midst of Rome, a kind of desert full of 
heaps of stones and pits, and though so near the habita- 
tions of men, is the most desolate place you can conceive. 
The ruins of temples stand in and around it, shattered 
columns and ranges of others complete, supporting 
cornices of exquisite workmanship, and vast vaults of 
shattered domes distinct with regular compartments, 
once filled with sculptures of ivory or brass. The 
temples of Jupiter, and Concord, and Peace, and the 
Sun, and the Moon, and Vesta, are all within a short 
distance of this spot. Behold the wrecks of what a 
great nation once dedicated to the abstractions of the 
mind ! Rome is a city, as it were, of the dead, or rather 
of those who cannot die, and who survive the puny 
generations which inhabit and pass over the spot which 
they have made sacred to eternity. In Rome, at least 
143 



The English Cemetery 

in the first enthusiasm of your recognition of ancient 
time, you see nothing of the Itahans. The nature of 
the city assists the delusion, for its vast and antique 
walls describe a circumference of sixteen miles, and thus 
the population is thinly scattered over this space, nearly 
as great as London. Wide wild fields are enclosed 
within it, and there are lanes and copses winding among 
the ruins, and a great green hill, lonely and bare, which 
overhangs the Tiber. The gardens of the modern 
palaces are like wild woods of cedar and cypress and 
pine, and the neglected walks are overgrown with weeds. 
The English burying place is a green slope near the 
walls, under the pyramidal tomb of Cestius, and is, I 
think, the most beautiful and solemn cemetery I ever 
beheld. To see the sun shining on its bright grass, 
fresh, when we first visited it, with the autumnal dews, 
and hear the whispering of the wind among the leaves 
of the trees which have overgrown the tomb of Cestius, 
and the soil which is stirring in the sun-warm earth, and 
to mark the tombs, mostly of women and young people 
who were buried there, one might, if one were to die, 
desire the sleep they seem to sleep. Such is the human 
mind, and so it peoples with its wishes vacancy and 
oblivion. 

Thomas Gray extols Kent -^^::> -^^^ -^^ ^^^ 

(To the Rev. Norton Nicholls) 

Pembroke Hall, ^?(^7^j-/ 26, 1766 

DEAR SIR, — It is long since that I heard you were 
gone in haste into Yorkshire on account of your 
mother's illness; and the same letter informed me that 
she was recovered ; otherwise I had then wrote to you, 
144 



" White Transient Sails " 

only to beg you would take care of her, and to inform 
you that I had discovered a thing very little known, which 
is, that in one's whole life, one never can have any more 
than a single mother. You may think this is obvious, 
and (what you call) a trite observation. You are a green 
gosling! I was at the same age (very near) as wise as 
you, and yet I never discovered this (with full evidence 
and conviction, I mean), till it was too late. It is thirteen 
years ago, and seems but yesterday; and every day I 
live, it sinks deeper into my heart. Many a corollary 
could I draw from this axiom for your use (not for my 
own), but I will leave you the merit of doing it yourself. 
Pray tell me how your own health is. I conclude it 
perfect, as I hear you offered yourself for a guide to 
Mr. Palgrave into the Sierra-Morena of Yorkshire. For 
me, I passed the end of May and all June in Kent, not 
disagreeably ; the country is all a garden, gay, rich, and 
fruitful, and (from the rainy season) had preserved, till I 
left it, all that emerald verdure, which commonly one only 
sees for the first fortnight of the spring. In the west 
part of it, from every eminence, the eye catches some 
long, winding reach of the Thames or Medway, with all 
their navigation ; in the east, the sea breaks in upon you, 
and mixes its white transient sails and glittering blue ex- 
panse with the deeper and brighter greens of the woods 
and corn. This last sentence is so fine, I am quite 
ashamed; but, no matter! you must translate it into 
prose. Palgrave, if he heard it, would cover his face with 
his pudding sleeve. I went to Margate for a day; one 
would think it was Bartholomew Fair that had flown 
down from Smithfield to Kent in the London Machine, 
like my Lady Stufifdamask (to be sure you have read 
• the New Bath Guide, the most fashionable of books) ; so 
then I did 7iot go to Kingsgate, because it belonged to 
L 145 



An Inquiring P.S. 

my Lord Holland, but to Ramsgate I did; and so to 
Sandwich, and Deal, and Dover, and Folkestone, and 
Hythe, all along the coast, very delightful. I do not tell 
you of the great and small beasts, and creeping things 
innumerable, that I met with, because you do not suspect 
that this world is inhabited by anything but men and 
women and clergy, and such two-legged cattle. Now I am 
here again, very disconsolate, and all alone, even Mr. 
Brown is gone ; and the cares of this world are coming 
thick upon me ; I do not mean children. You, I hope, 
are better off, riding and walking in the woods of Studley 
with Mr. Aislaby, singing duets with my cousin Fanny, 
improving with Mr. Weddell, conversing with Mr, Harry 
Duncomb. I must not wish for you here; besides, I am 
going to town at Michaelmas, by no means for amusement. 
Do you remember how we are to go into Wales next year? 
Well ! — Adieu, I am sincerely yours, T. G. 

P.S. — Pray how does poor Temple find himself in his 
new situation ? Is Lord Lisburne as good as his letters 
were ? What is come of the father and brother ? Have 
you seen Mason ? 



The Lambs at Cambridge ^^::> ^^:> ^n^ ^^:^ 

(To Sarah Hutchinson) 
I 

Dated at end: August 20, 181 5 

MY DEAR FRIEND, — It is less fatigue to me to 
write upon lines, and I want to fill up as much of 
my paper as I can, in gratitude for the pleasure your very 
kind letter has given me. I began to think I should not 
146 



News of S. T. C. 

hear from you; knowing you were not fond of letter- 
writing, I quite forgave you, but I was very sorry. Do not 
make a point of conscience of it, but if ever you feel an in- 
clination, you cannot think how much a few lines would 
delight me. I am happy to hear so good an account of 
your sister and child, and sincerely wish her a perfect 
recovery. I am glad you did not arrive sooner, you es- 
caped much anxiety. I have just received a very cheerful 
letter from Mrs. Morgan — the following I have picked out 
as I think it will interest you. " Hartley Coleridge has been 
with us for two months. Morgan invited him to pass the 
long vacation here in the hope that his father would be of 
great service to him in his studies : he seems to be ex- 
tremely amiable. I believe he is to spend the next vaca- 
tion at Lady Beaumont's. Your old friend Coleridge is 
very hard at work at the preface to a new Edition which 
he is just going to publish in the same form as Mr. Words- 
worth's — at first the preface was not to exceed five or six 
pages, it has however grown into a work of great impor- 
tance. I believe Morgan has already written nearly two 
hundred pages. The title of it is Aiitobiographia Litera- 
ria : to which are added Sybilline Leaves, a collection 
of Poems by the same author. Calne has lately been 
much enlivened by an excellent company of players — 
last week they performed the * Remorse ' to a very 
crowded and brilliant audience ; two of the characters 
were admirably well supported; at the request of the 
actors Morgan was behind the scenes all the time, and 
assisted in the music, etc." 

Thanks to your kind interference, we have had a very 
nice letter from Mr. Wordsworth. Of them and of you we 
think and talk quite with a painful regret that we did not 
see more of you, and that it may be so long before we meet 
again. 

147 



Mary Lamb Duplicates 

I am going to do a queer thing — I have wearied myself 
with writing a long letter to Mrs. Morgan, a part of 
which is an incoherent rambling account of a jaunt we 
have just been taking. I want to tell you all about it, 
for we so seldom do such things that it runs strangely 
in my head, and I feel too tired to give you other 
than the mere copy of the nonsense I have just been 
writing. 

" Last Saturday was the grand feast day of the India 
House Clerks. I think you must have heard Charles 
talk of his yearly turtle feast. He has been lately much 
wearied with work, and, glad to get rid of all connected 
wiih it, he used Saturday, the feast day being a hohday, 
borrowed the Monday following, and we set off on the 
outset of the Cambridge Coach from Fetter Lane at eight 
o'clock, and were driven into Cambridge in great triumph 
by Hell Fire Dick five minutes before three. Richard is 
in high reputation, he is private tutor to the Whip Club. 
Journeys used to be tedious torments to me, but, seated 
out in the open air, I enjoyed every mile of the way — the 
first twenty miles was particularly pleasing to me, having 
been accustomed to go so far on that road in the Ware 
Stage Coach to visit my Grandmother in the days of 
other times. 

" In my life I never spent so many pleasant hours 
together as 1 did at Cambridge. We were walking the 
whole time — out of one College into another. If you 
ask me which I like best, I must make the children's 
traditionary unoffending reply to all curious enquirers — 
^Both.'' I liked them all best. The little gloomy ones, 
because they were little gloomy ones. I felt as if I 
could live and die in them and never wish to speak 
again. And the fine grand Trinity College, Oh how 
fine it was ! And King's College Chapel, what a place ! 
148 



The Friendly Undergrad. 

I heard the Cathedral service there, and having been 
no great church goer of late years, that and the painted 
windows and the general effect of the whole thing affected 
me wonderfully. 

"I certainly like St. John^s College best. I had seen 
least of it, having only been over it once, so, on the morn- 
ing we returned, I got up at six o'clock and wandered into 
it by myself — by myself indeed, for there was nothing 
alive to be seen but one cat, who followed me about 
like a dog. Then I went over Trinity, but nothing 
hailed me there, not even a cat. 

" On the Sunday we met with a pleasant thing. We had 
been congratulating each other that we had come alone 
to enjoy, as the miser his feast, all our sights greedily 
to ourselves, but having seen all we began to grow flat 
and wish for this and tother body with us, when we 
were accosted by a young gownsman whose face we 
knew, but where or how we had seen him we could 
not tell, and were obliged to ask his name. He proved 
to be a young man we had seen twice at Alsager's. 
He turned out a very pleasant fellow — showed us the 
insides of places — we took him to our Inn to dinner, 
and drank tea with him in such a delicious college 
room, and then again he supped with us. We made 
our meals as short as possible, to lose no time, and 
walked our young conductor almost off his legs. Even 
when the fried eels were ready for supper and coming 
up, having a message from a man who we had bribed 
for the purpose, that then we might see Oliver Cromwell, 
who was not at home when we called to see him, we 
sallied out again and made him a visit by candlelight 
— and so ended our sights. When we were setting out 
in the morning our new friend came to bid us good-bye, 
and rode with us as far as Trompington. I never saw 
149 



Lamb Commencing Gentleman 

a creature so happy as he was the whole time he was 
with us, he said we had put him in such good spirits 
that [he] should certainly pass an examination well 
that he is to go through in six weeks in order to 
qualify himself to obtain a fellowship. 

" Returning home down old Fetter Lane, I could hardly 
keep from crying to think it was all over. With what 
pleasure [Charles] shewed me Jesus College where 
Coleridge was — the barbe[r's shop] where Manning was 
— the house where Lloyd lived — Franklin's rooms, a 
young schoolfellow with whom Charles was the first 
time he went to Cambridge : I peeped in at his window, 
the room looked quite deserted — old chairs standing 
about in disorder that seemed to have stood there ever 
since they had sate in "them. I write sad nonsense 
about these things, but I wish you had heard Charles 
talk his nonsense over and over again about his visit 
to Franklin, and how he then first felt himself com- 
mencing gentleman and had eggs for his breakfast." 
Charles Lamb commencing gentleman ! 

A lady who is sitting by me, seeing what I am 
doing, says I remind her of her husband, who acknow- 
ledged that the first love letter he wrote to her was 
a copy of one he had made use of on a former 
occasion. 

This is no letter, but if you give me any encourage- 
ment to write again you shall have one entirely to 
yourself: a little encouragement will do, a few lines 
to say you are well and remember us. I will keep this 
to-morrow, maybe Charles will put a few lines to it — 
I always send off a humdrum letter of mine with great 
satisfaction if I can get him to freshen it up a little at 
the end. Let me beg my love to your sister Johanna 
with many thanks. I have much pleasure in looking 
150 



' Bless the Little Churches 



forward to her nice bacon, the maker of which I long 
I have had a great desire to see. 

God bless you, my dear Miss Hutchinson, I remain 
ever, your affectionate friend, M. Lamb 



II 



DEAR MISS HUTCHINSON, — I subscribe most 
willingly to all my sister says of her Enjoyment at 
Cambridge. She was in silent raptures all the while 
there^ and came home riding thro^ the air (her ist long 
outside journey) triumphing as if she had been gradu- 
ated. I remember one foolish-pretty expression she 
made use of, " Bless the little churches how pretty they 
are,'' as those symbols of civilised life opened upon her 
view, one after the other, on this side of Cambridge. You 
cannot proceed a mile without starting a steeple, with 
its little patch of villagery round it, enverduring the 
waste. I don't know how you will pardon part of her 
letter being a transcript, but writing to another Lady 
first (probably as the easiest task) it was unnatural not 
to give you an acco* of what had so freshly delighted 
her, and would have been a piece of transcendent 
rhetorick (above her modesty) to have given two different 
accounts of a simple and univocal pleasure. Bless me 
how learned I write ! but I always forget myself when 
I write to Ladies. One cannot tame one's erudition 
down to their merely English apprehensions. But this 
and all other faults you will excuse from yours truly, 

C. Lamb 



151 



A Poet in the Alps 

The Rev. T. E. Brown describes the Jungfrau ^^^ 

(To Mrs. Williamson) 

October i8, 1874 

OUR three weeks in Switzerland were consummate. 
No rain, no wind, a perpetual bath of sunshine, 
hot of course, but at those heights deliciously bracing 
and stimulating; sunshine that got into your brain and 
heart, and set you all aglow with a sweet radiant fire I 
never thought possible for my old jaded apparatus 
physiciis. We went by Paris to Neufchatel ; thence to 
Berne, Thun, Interlaken, Lauterbrunner, Miirren. Here 
we stayed a week. It was the best part of our holiday; 
a week never, never to be forgotten. 

Miirren faces the Jungfrau. This glorious creature is 
your one object of interest from morning to night. It 
seems so near that you could fancy a stone might be 
thrown across to it. Between you and it is a broad 
valley: but so deep, and with sides so precipitous, that 
it is entirely out of sight. So the Jungfrau vis-d-vis-ts 
you frankly through the bright sweet intervening air. 
And then she has such moods ; such unutterable smiles, 
such inscrutable sulks, such growls of rage suppressed, 
such thunder of avalanches, such crowns of stars. One 
evening our sunset was the real rose pink you have 
heard of so much. It fades, you know, into a deathlike 
chalk-white. That is the most awful thing. A sort of 
spasm seems to come over her face, and in an instant 
she is a corpse, rigid, and oh, so cold ! Well, so she 
died, and you felt as if a great soul had ebbed away into 
the Heaven of Heavens : and thankful, but very sad, I 
went up to my room. I was reading by candle-light, for 
it gets dark immediately after sunset, when A. shrieked 
152 



"The Sweet Bright Flora" 

tome to come to the window. What a Resurrection — 
so gentle, so tender — like that sonnet of Milton's about 
his dead wife returning in vision! The moon had risen; 
and there was the Jungfrau — oh chaste, oh blessed saint 
in glory everlasting ! Then all the elemental spirits that 
haunt crevasses, and hover around peaks, all the patient 
powers that bear up the rock buttresses, and labour to 
sustain great slopes, all streams, and drifts, and flowers, 
and vapours, made a symphony, a time most solemn and 
rapturous. It was there, unheard perhaps, unheard, I 
will not deny it; but there, nevertheless. A young 
Swiss felt it, and with exquisite delicacy feeling his way, 
as it were, to some expression, however inadequate, he 
played a sonata of Schumann, and one or two of the 
songs, such as the Fruhlingsnacht. Forgive my rhap- 
sody : but, you know, you don't get those things twice. 

■ And let me say just one word of what followed. The 
abyss below was a pot of boiling blackness, and on to 

\ this, and down into this, and all over this, the moonlight 
-' fell as meal falls on to porridge from nimbly sifting 
\ fingers. Moon-meal! that was it. 

I climbed the Schilthorn one day before breakfast ; it 

■ is about 10,000 feet; but, as a rule, I didn't like to leave 
! A. alone; so that my climbing was of the most limited, 

and I scarcely got on to ice at all. At Miirren, perhaps 
more than anywhere else, we had the most astounding 
richness of pasture. But Switzerland, generally, is in 
this respect unique. So lush is the vegetation, that it 
is almost impossible to get up into bare savagery of 

^ desolation. 

\ The sweet bright Flora baffles you ; she springs like 
a bacchante from height to height. You can't get above 
her. I don't mean fat, fulsome richness ; but the pas- 
tures are so velvety, so parsemed with all imaginable 

' 153 



The Brave Optimist 

colours. The grass seems to be all flowers, and the 
flowers to be all grass : the closest-grained math I ever 
beheld ; and through it everywhere, led by careful hands, 
go singing, hissing rather, like sharp silver scythes, the 
little blessed streams. I was not prepared for this. 

We got to Chamounix and went up the Flegere, and 
A. was like a roe upon the mountains ; and every care 
and every strain of anxiety and bother was wiped from 
off our souls, and we were both, as we once were, young 
and full of hope and love. Age and the love shall remain, 
God wot, but the other things — all right! all right! 



154 



VII 

THE LITTLE FRIENDS 

William Cowper loses Puss ^oy ^;^ <:> ^^ 

(Tc the Rev. John Newton) 

August 21, 1780 

THE following occurrence ought not to be passed over 
in silence, in a place where so few notable ones 
are to be met with. 

Last Wednesday night, while we were at supper, 
between the hours of eight and nine, I heard an unusual 
noise in the back parlour, as if one of the hares was 
entangled, and endeavouring to disengage herself. I 
was just going to rise from table, when it ceased. In 
about five minutes, a voice on the outside of the parlour 
door inquired if one of my hares had got away. I 
immediately rushed into the next room, and found that 
my poor favourite Puss had made her escape. 

She had gnawed in sunder the strings of a lattice work, 
with which I thought I had sufficiently secured the 
window, and which I preferred to any other sort of blind, 
because it admitted plenty of air. 

From thence I hastened to the kitchen, where I saw 
155 



A Four-Shilling Frolic 

the redoubtable Thomas Freeman, who told me that, 
having seen her, just after she had dropped into the 
street, he attempted to cover her with his hat, but she 
screamed out, and leaped directly over his head. I then 
desired him to pursue as fast as possible, and added 
Richard Coleman to the chase, as being nimbler, and 
carrying less weight than Thomas ; not expecting to see 
her again, but desirous to learn, if possible, what became 
of her. In something less than an hour, Richard returned, 
almost breathless, with the following account. That soon 
after he began to run, he left Tom behind him, and came 
in sight of a most numerous hunt of men, women, children, 
and dogs ; that he did his best to keep back the dogs, 
and presently outstripped the crowd, so that the race 
was at last disputed between himself and Puss ; — she 
ran right through the town, and down the lane that leads 
to Dropshort ; a little before she came to the house, he 
got the start and turned her; she pushed for the town 
again, and soon after she entered it, sought shelter in 
Mr. Wagstafif's tanyard, adjoining to old Mr. Drake's. 

Sturges's harvest men were at supper, and saw her 
from the opposite side of the way. 

There she encountered the tanpits full of water ; and 
while she was struggling out of one pit, and plunging 
into another, and almost drowned, one of the men drew 
her out by the ears, and secured her. She was then well 
washed in a bucket to get the lime out of her coat, and 
brought home in a sack at ten o'clock. 

This frolic cost us four shillings, but you may believe 
we did not grudge a farthing of it. 

The poor creature received only a little hurt in one of 
her claws, and in one of her ears, and is now almost as 
well as ever. 

I do not call this an answer to vour letter, but such as 
156 



Tortoise Loquitur 



it is I send it, presuming upon that interest which I know 
you take in my minutest concerns, which I cannot express 
better than in the words of Terence a Httle varied — Nihil 
mei a te alienum pittas. — Yours, my dear friend, 

W. C. 

Gilbert White becomes Timothy's autobiographer ^^i' 
(To Hester Chapone) 

Selborne, August 31, 1784 

MOST RESPECTABLE LADY,— Your letter gave 
me great satisfaction, being the first that I ever was 
honoured with. It is my wish to answer you in my own 
way ; but I never could make a verse in my life, so you 
must be contented with plain prose. Having seen but 
little of this great world, conversed but little, and read less, 
I feel myself much at a loss how to entertain so intelli- 
gent a correspondent. Unless you will let me write about 
myself, my answer will be very short indeed. 

Know, then, that I am an American, and was born in 
the year 1734, in the province of Virginia, in the midst 
of a Savanna that lay between a large tobacco plantation 
and a creek of the sea. Here I spent my youthful days 
among my relatives with great satisfaction, and saw around 
me many venerable kinsmen, who had attained great ages, 
without any interruptions from distempers. 

Longevity is so general among our species that a funeral 
is quite a strange occurrence. I can just remember the 
death of my great-great-grandfather, who departed this life 
in the i6oth year of his age. 

Happy should I have been in the enjoyment of my 
native climate, and the society of my friends, had not a 
sea-boy, who was wandering about to see what he could 



The Cradle of the Deep 

pick up, surprised me as I was sunning myself under a 
bush ; and whipping me into his wallet, carried me aboard 
his ship. The circumstances of our voyage are not worth 
a recital ; I only remember that the rippling of the water 
against the sides of our vessel as we sailed along was a 
very lulling and composing sound, which served to soothe 
my slumbers as I lay in the hold. We had a short voyage, 
and came to anchor on the coast of England in the harbour 
of Chichester. 

In that city my kidnapper sold me for half-a-crown 
to a country gentleman, who came up to attend an elec- 
tion. I was immediately packed in a hand-basket, and 
carried, slung by the servant's side, to their place of abode. 
As they rode very hard for forty miles, and I had never 
been on horseback before, I found myself somewhat 
giddy from my airy jaunt. My purchaser, who was a 
great humorist, after showing me to some of his neigh- 
bours, and giving me the name of Timothy, took little 
further notice of me ; so I fell under the care of his lady, 
a benevolent woman, whose humane attention extended 
to the meanest of her retainers. With this gentlewoman 
I remained almost forty years, living in a little walled-in 
court in the front of her house, and enjoying much 
quiet, and as much satisfaction as I could expect without 
society. 

At last this good old lady died, in a very advanced 
old age, such as a tortoise would call a good old age ; 
and I then became the property of her nephew. This 
man, my present master, dug me out of my winter 
retreat, and packing me in a deal box, jumbled me 
eighty miles in post-chaises to my present place of abode. 
I was sore shaken by this expedition, which was the 
worst journey I ever experienced. In my present situa- 
tion I enjoy many advantages — such as the range of an 

158 



A Whimsical Naturalist 

extensive garden, affording a variety of sun and shade, 
and abounding in lettuces, poppies, kidney-beans, and 
many other salubrious and delectable herbs and plants, 
and especially with a great choice of delicate goose- 
berries ! But still at times I miss my good old mistress, 
whose grave and regular deportment suited best with 
my disposition. For you must know that my master 
is what they call a tiatiiralist, and much visited by people 
of that turn, who often find him on whimsical experiments, 
such as feeling my pulse, putting me in a tub of water 
to try if I can swim, etc., and twice in the year I am 
carried to the grocer's to be weighed, that it may be seen 
how much I am wasted during the months of my absti- 
nence, and how much I gain by feasting in the sum- 
mer. Upon these occasions I am placed in the scale on 
my back, where I sprawl about to the great diversion of 
the shopkeeper's children. These matters displease me ; 
but there is another that much hurts my pride — I mean 
that contempt shown for my understanding which these 
Lords of the Creation are very apt to discover, thinking 
that nobody knows anything but themselves. I heard 
my master say that he expected that I should some day 
tumble down the ha-ha; whereas I would have him to 
know that I can discern a precipice from plain ground 
as well as himself. Sometimes my master repeats with 
much seeming triumph the following lines, which occasion 
a loud laugh — 

" Timotheus, placed on high 
Amidst the tuneful choir, 
With flying fingers touched the lyre." 

For my part I see no wit in the application, nor know 

whence these verses are quoted, perhaps from some 

prophet of his own, who, if he penned them for the sake 

159 



Hardshell's Wander'] ahr 

of ridiculing tortoises, bestowed his pains, I think, to poor 
purposes. These are some of my grievances ; but they sit 
very light on me in comparison of what remains behind. 

Know, then, tender-hearted lady, that my greatest 
misfortune, and what I have never divulged to anyone 
before, is the want of society of my own kind. 

This reflection is always uppermost in my own mind, 
but comes upon me with irresistible force every spring. 
It was in the month of May last, that I resolved to elope 
from my place of confinement, for my fancy had repre- 
sented to me that probably many agreeable tortoises of 
both sexes might inhabit the heights of Baker's Hill, or 
the extensive plains of the neighbouring meadows, both 
of which I could discern from the terrass. One sunny 
morning, therefore, I watched my opportunity, found the 
wicket open, eluded the vigilance of Thomas Hoar, and 
escaped into the St. foin, which began to be in bloom, 
and thence into the beans. I was missing eight days, 
wandering in this wilderness of sweets, and exploring 
the meadows at times. But my pains were all to no 
purpose; I could find no society such as I wished and 
sought for. I began to grow hungry, and to wish myself 
at home. I therefore came forth into sight, and surren- 
dered myself up to Thomas, who had been inconsolable 
in my absence. Thus, madam, have I given you a faithful 
account of my satisfactions and sorrows, the latter of which 
are uppermost. You are a lady, I understand, of much sen- 
sibility. Let me, therefore, make my case your own in the 
following manner, and then you will judge of my feelings. 

Suppose you were to be kidnapped away to-morrow^ 
in the bloom of your life, to the land of Tortoises, and 
were never to see again for fifty years a human face! ! ! 
Think on this, dear lady, and pity your sorrowful Reptile, 

Timothy 
1 60 



Boz Bereaved 

Charles Dickens tells Captain Basil Hall of the death 
of his raven ^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^^^ ^ 

March i6, 1841 

MY raven's dead. He had been ailing for a few 
days, but not seriously, as we thought, and was 
apparently recovering, when symptoms of relapse occa- 
sioned me to send for an eminent medical gentleman, 
one Herring (a bird fancier in the New Road), who 
promptly attended and administered a powerful dose of 
castor oil. This was on Tuesday last. On Wednesday 
morning he had another dose of castor oil and a teacup- 
ful of warm gruel, which he took with great relish, and 
under the influence of which he so far recovered his spirits 
as to be able to bite the groom severely. At 12 o'clock at 
noon he took several turns up and down the stable with 
a grave, sedate air, and suddenly reeled. This made 
him thoughtful. He stopped directly, shook his head, 
moved on again, stopped once more, cried in a tone of 
remonstrance and considerable surprise, " Halloa, old 
girl ! " and immediately died. He has left a rather large 
property (in cheese and halfpence) buried, for security's 
sake, in various parts of the garden. I am not without 
suspicions of poison. A butcher was heard to threaten 
him some weeks since, and he stole a clasp knife belong- 
ing to a vindictive carpenter, which was never found. 
For these reasons, I directed a post-mortem examination 
preparatory to the body being stuffed ; the result of it 
has not yet reached me. The medical gentleman broke 
out the fact of his decease to me with great delicacy, 
observing that "the jolliest queer start had taken place 
with that 'ere knowing card of a bird, as ever he see'd," — 
but the shock was naturally very great. With reference 
to the jollity of the start, it appears that a raven dying at 
M 161 



Beautiful, Clean, and Sensible 

two hundred and fifty or thereabouts, is looked upon as 
an infant. This one would hardly, as I may say, have 
been born for a century or so to come, being only two or 
three years old. 

The Swan of Lichfield loses Sappho ^::> ^^r^ ^> 
(To Mr. Newton) 

January i6, 1791 

I WRITE to you thus early on the receipt of yours, 
beneath the impression of a severe shock from the 
sudden death, in my presence, of my darling little dog, 
by the breaking, as it is supposed, of the aneurism in her 
throat, which had never seemed to have given her the 
least annoyance till the minute in which it destroyed her. 
Her life had been a three years' rapture, so cloudless had 
been her health, so gay was her spirit, so agile her light 
and bounding frame, so pleasurable her keen sensibilities. 
How I miss her, constant and sweet companion as she 
was, it is not in every heart to conceive, or, conceiving it, 
to pity. Giovanni laments her not less fondly ; and her 
fate left no eye unwet in my little household. Her loss 
spread the gloom of silence through this large mansion, 
so thinly tenanted, that perpetually rung with the demon- 
strations either of her joy or guardian watchfulness. Her 
incessant affection for me, her gentleness and perfect 
obedience, occur hourly to my remembrance, and '' thrill 
my heart with melancholy pain." 

My ingenious, learned, and benevolent neighbour, Mr. 
Green, whose poetic talents are admirable, sent me the 
ensuing enchanting stanzas, the day after I lost the 
beautiful, the clean, the sensible, the beloved little 
creature — 

162 



Frequent Tear and Beamy Eyes 

(To Miss Seward on the death of her favourite lap-dog 
Sappho) 

Cease, gentle maid, to shed the frequent tear, 
That dims the lustre of thy beamy eyes; 

Grief, and her tempting luxuries forbear, 
Nor longer heave those unavailing sighs. 

Say, shall that heart, with noblest passions warm, 
Where friendship and her train delight to rest. 

That mind, where sense and playful fancy charm, 
By fond extreme of pity sink oppress'd ? 

What though thy favourite, with her parting breath, 

Implor'd thy succour in a piercing yell. 
And seem'd to court thy kind regards in death, 

As at thy feet, in mortal trance, she fell : 

What though, when fate's resistless mandate came. 
Thy friendly hand was stretch 'd in vain to save, 

Yet can that hand bestow a deathless fame. 
And plant unfading flowers around her grave. 

Then let thy strains in plaintive accents flow, 
So shall thy much-loved Sappho still survive; 

So shall her beauties shine with brighter glow, 
And in thy matchless verse for ages live. 

Thus, if perchance the splendid amber folds 

Some tiny insect in its crystal womb. 
While its rare form the curious eye beholds, 

The insect shares the glories of its tomb. 

Severe has been the breath of this rugged winter; — 1 
hope it spreads no lasting blight in your domestic com- 
forts. I have been much out of health through its icy 
progress, and obliged to throw myself upon medical 
assistance. Within this month my disorder has given 
way to the skill of my physicians ; but Mr. Saville, the 
disinterested, the humane, still suflfers seizures in his 
163 



Tests for Hydrophobia 

stomach, of an uncommon, and surely of an alarming na- 
ture. Heaven send they may be transient, and, in its 
mercy, restore to health a life so valuable. Adieu ! 



Charles Lamb and his dog ^> ^> ^^:^ ^:^ 

Mrs. Leishman's, Chace, Enfield, 
September^ 1827 

DEAR PATMORE,— Excuse my anxiety — but how 
is Dash? (I should have asked if Mrs. Patmore 
kept her rules, and was improving — but Dash came 
uppermost. The order of our thoughts should be the 
order of our writing.) Goes he muzzled, or aperto ore ? 
Are his intellects sound, or does he wander a little in his 
conversation? You cannot be too careful to watch the 
first symptoms of incoherence. The first illogical snarl 
he makes, to St. Luke's with him! All the dogs here 
are going mad, if you believe the overseers ; but I protest 
they seem to me very rational and collected. But nothing 
is so deceitful as mad people to those who are not used 
to them. Try him with hot water. If he won't lick it up, 
it is a sign he does not like it. Does his tail wag 
horizontally or perpendicularly? That has decided the 
fate of many dogs in Enfield. Is his general deportment 
cheerful ? I mean when he is pleased — for otherwise 
there is no judging. You can't be too careful. Has he 
bit any of the children yet? If he has, have them shot, 
and keep him for curiosity, to see if it was the hydro- 
phobia. They say all our army in India had it at one 
time — but that was in Hyder-A\\y''s time. Do you get 
paunch for him? Take care the sheep was sane. You 
might pull out his teeth (if he would let you), and then 
you need not mind if he were as mad as a Bedlamite. It 
164 



The Profounder Germans 

would be rather fun to see his odd ways. It might amuse 
Mrs. Patmore and the children. They'd have more sense 
than he ! He'd be like a Fool kept in the family to keep 
the household in good humour with their own understand- 
ing. You might teach him the mad dance set to the mad 
howl. Madge Owl-et would be nothing to him. "My, 
how he capers!" \_ln the margiji is written : One of the 
children speaks this.] 

\Three lines here are erased^ What I scratch out is a 
German quotation from Lessing on the bite of rabid 
animals; but, I remember, you don't read German. 
But Mrs. Patmore may, so I wish I had let it stand. 
The meaning in English is — "Avoid to approach an 
animal suspected of madness, as you would avoid fire or 
a precipice : — " which I think is a sensible observation. 
The Germans are certainly profounder than we. 

If the slightest suspicion arises in your breast, that all is 
not right with him (Dash), muzzle him, and lead him in 
a string (common pack-thread will do ; he don't care for 
twist) to Hood's, his quondam master, and he'll take him 
in at any time. You may mention your suspicion or not, 
as you like, or as you think it may wound or not Mr. H.'s 
feelings. Hood, I know, will wink at a few follies in 
Dash, in consideration of his former sense. Besides, 
Hood is deaf, and if you hinted anything, ten to one he 
would not hear you. Besides, you will have discharged 
your conscience, and laid the child at the right door, as 
they say. 

We are dawdling our time away very idly and pleas- 
antly at a Mrs. Leishman's, Chace, Enfield, where, if you 
come a-hunting, we can give you cold meat and a tankard. 
Her husband is a tailor ; but that, you know, does not 
make her one. I knew a jailor (which rhymes), but his 
wife was a fine lady. 

165 



Linda and Mrs. Bouncer 

Let us hear from you respecting Mrs. Patmore's 

regimen. I send my love in to Dash. 

C. Lamb 



Charles Dickens describes his welcome home '^^:> 

Gads Hill, Higham, by Rochester, Kent 
May 25, 1868 

MY DEAR MRS. FIELDS, — As you ask me about 
the dogs, I begin with them. When I came down 
first, I came to Gravesend, five miles off. The two 
Newfoundland dogs, coming to meet me with the usual 
carriage and the usual driver, and beholding me coming 
in my usual dress out at the usual door, it struck me that 
their recollection of my having been absent for any unusual 
time was at once cancelled. They behaved (they are both 
young dogs) exactly in their usual manner ; coming behind 
the basket phaeton as we trotted along, and lifting their 
heads to have their ears pulled — a special attention which 
they receive from no one else. But when I drove into the 
stableyard, Linda (the St. Bernard) was greatly excited ; 
weeping profusely, and throwing herself on her back, that 
she might caress my foot with her great fore-paws. 
Mamie's little dog, too, Mrs. Bouncer, barked in the 
greatest agitation on being called down and asked by 
Mamie, " Who is this ? " and tore round and round me, 
like the dog in the Faust outlines. You must know that 
all the farmers turned out on the road in their market- 
chaises to say, " Welcome home, sir ! " and that all the 
houses along the road were dressed with flags ; and that 
our servants, to cut out the rest, had dressed this house 
so that every brick of it was hidden. They had asked 
Mamie's permission to "ring the alarm bell" (!) when 
166 



Gads Hill's Birds 

master drove up, but Mamie, having some slight idea that 
that compliment might awaken master's sense of the 
ludicrous, had recommended bell abstinence. But on 
Sunday the village choir (which includes the bell-ringers) 
made amends. After some unusually brief pious reflections 
in the crowns of their hats, at the end of the sermon, the 
ringers bolted out, and rang like mad until I got home. 
There had been a conspiracy among the villagers to take 
the horse out, if I had come to our own station, and draw 
me here. Mamie and Georgy had got wind of it and 
warned me. 

Divers birds sing here all day, and the nightingales all 
night. The place is lovely, and in perfect order. I have 
put five mirrors in the Swiss chalet (where I write), and 
they reflect and refract in all kinds of ways the leaves 
that are quivering at the windows, and the great fields of 
waving corn, and the sail-dotted river. My room is up 
among the branches of the trees, and the birds and the 
butterflies fly in and out, and the green branches shoot in, 
at the open windows, and the lights and shadows of the 
clouds come and go with the rest of the company. The 
scent of the flowers, and indeed of everything that is 
growing for miles and miles, is most delicious. 

Dolby (who sends a world of messages) found his wife 
much better than he expected, and the children (wonder- 
fill to relate !) perfect. The little girl winds up her prayers 
every night with a special commendation to Heaven of me 
and the pony — as if I must mount him to get there ! I 
dine with Dolby (I was going to write*" him," but found it 
would look as if I were going to dine with the pony) at 
Greenwich this very day, and if your ears do not burn 
from six to nine this evening, then the Atlantic is a non- 
conductor. 

It is time I should explain the otherwise inexplicable 
167 



Prayers for the Fields 

enclosure. Will you tell Fields, with my love (I suppose 
he hasn't used all the pens yet ?), that I think there is in 
Tremont Street a set of my books, sent out by Chapman, 
not arrived when I departed. Such set of the immortal 
works of our illustrious, etc., is designed for the gentle- 
man to whom the enclosure is addressed. If T., F. & 
Co. will kindly forward the set (carriage paid) with the 

enclosure to 's address, I will invoke new blessings 

on their heads, and will get Dolby's little daughter to 
mention them nightly. 

" No Thoroughfare " is very shortly coming out in 
Paris, where it is now in active rehearsal. It is still 
playing here, but without Fechter, who has been very ill. 
The doctor's dismissal of him to Paris, however, and his 
getting better there, enables him to get up the play there. 
He and Wilkie missed so many pieces of stage-effect here, 
that, unless I am quite satisfied with his report, I shall go 
over and try my stage-managerial hand at the Vaude- 
ville theatre. — Ever, my dear Mrs. Fields, your most 
affectionate friend. 



[68 



VIII 
URBANITY AND NONSENSE 

Horace Walpole affects to reprimand Lady Howe ^^ 

November lo, 1764 

SOH ! Madam, you expect to be thanked, because 
you have done a very obliging thing ! But I won't 
thank you, and I won't be obHged. It is very hard one 
can't come into your house and commend anything, but 
you must recollect it and send it after one ! I will never 
dine in your house again ; and, when I do, I will like 
nothing; and when I do, I will commend nothing; and 
when I do, you shan't remember it. You are very grateful 
indeed to Providence that gave you so good a memory, 
to stuff it with nothing but bills of fare of what everybody 
likes to eat and drink ! I wonder you are not ashamed — 
I wonder you are not ashamed ! Do you think there is no 
such thing as gluttony of the memory ? — you a Christian ! 
a pretty account you will be able to give of yourself ! Your 
fine folks in France may call this friendship and attention, 
perhaps, but sure, if I was to go to the devil, it should be 
for thinking of nothing but myself, not of others, from 
morning to night. I would send back your temptations, 
169 



Borrowing a Waistcoat 

but, as I will not be obliged to you for them, verily I 
shall retain them to punish you ; ingratitude being a 
proper chastisement for sinful friendliness. — Thine in 
spirit, Pilchard Whitfield 



Charles Dickens implores the loan of a great tragedian's 
fancy vest "v> '<::i>' ^^ry ^o:^ -<;^ 

Devonshire Terrace, 
Friday Evenings October 17, 1845 

MY DEAR MACREADY, — You once — only once — 
gave the world assurance of a waistcoat. You wore 
it, sir, I think, in " Money." It was a remarkable and 
precious waistcoat, wherein certain broad strips of blue 
or purple disported themselves as by a combination of 
extraordinary circumstances, too happy to occur again. 
I have seen it on your manly chest in private life. I saw 
it, sir, I think, the other day in the cold light of morning 
— with feelings easier to be imagined than described. 
Mr. Macready, sir, are you a father? If so, lend me 
that waistcoat for five minutes. I am bidden to a 
wedding (where fathers are made), and my artist cannot, 
I find (how should he?), imagine such a waistcoat. Let 
me show it to him as a sample of my tastes and wishes ; 
and — ha, ha, ha, ha ! — eclipse the bridegroom ! 

I will send a trusty messenger at half-past nine precisely, 
in the morning. He is sworn to secrecy. He durst not 
for his life betray us, or swells in ambuscade would have 
the waistcoat at the cost of his heart's blood. — Thine, 
The Unwaistcoated One 



170 



The Land of Thieves 

Charles Lamb brings himself to write to Australia ^o 
(To Barron Field) 

August 31, 1817 

MY DEAR BARRON, — The bearer of this letter so 
far across the seas is Mr. Lawrey, who comes out 
to you as a missionary, and whom I have been strongly 
importuned to recommend to you as a most worthy 
creature by Mr. Fenwick, a very old, honest friend of 
mine, of whom, if my memory does not deceive me, 
you have had some knowledge heretofore as editor of 
the Statesvian — a man of talent, and patriotic. If you 
can show him any facilities in his arduous undertaking, 
you will oblige us much. Well, and how does the land 
of thieves use you? and how do you pass your time in 
your extra-judical intervals? Going about the streets 
with a lantern, like Diogenes, looking for an honest man? 
You may look long enough, I fancy. Do give me some 
notion of the manners of the inhabitants where you are. 
They don't thieve all day long, do they? No human 
property could stand such continuous battery. And what 
do they do when they an't stealing? 

Have you got a theatre? What pieces are performed? 
Shakespear's, I suppose — not so much for the poetry, as 
for his having once been in danger of leaving his country 
on account of certain " small deer." 

Have you poets among you? Cursed plagiarists, I 
fancy, if you have any. I would not trust an idea or a 
pocket-hankerchief of mine among 'em. You are almost 
competent to answer Lord Bacon's problem, whether a 
nation of atheists can subsist together. You are 
practically in one : — 

" So thievish 'tis, that the eighth commandment itself 
Scarce seemeth there to be." 
171 



Distant Correspondents 

Our old honest world goes on with little perceptible 
variation. Of course you have heard of poor MitchelPs 
death, and that G. Dyer is one of Lord Stanhope's 
residuaries. I am afraid he has not touched much of 
the residue yet. He is positively as lean as Cassius. 
Barnes is going to Demerara or Essequibo, I am not 
quite certain which. A[lsager] is turned actor. He 
came out in genteel comedy at Cheltenham this season, 
and has hopes of a London engagement. 

For my own history, I am just in the same spot, doing 
the same thing (videlicet, little or nothing), as when you 
left me ; only I have positive hopes that I shall be able 
to conquer that- inveterate habit of smoking which you 
may remember I indulged in. I think of making a 
beginning this evening, namely, Sunday, 31st August 
181 7, not Wednesday, 2nd February 181 8, as it will be, 
perhaps, when you read this for the first time. There is 
the difficulty of writing from one end of the globe 
(hemispheres I call 'em) to another ! Why, half the 
truths I have sent you in this letter will become lies 
before they reach you, and some of the lies (which I have 
mixed for variety's sake, and to exercise your judgment 
in the finding of them out) may be turned into sad 
realities before you shall be called upon to detect them. 
Such are the defects of going by different chronologies. 
Your now is not my now ; and again, your then is not my 
then ; but my now may be your then, and vice versa. 
Whose head is competent to these things? 

How does Mrs. Field get on in her geography? Does 
she know where she is by this time? I am not sure 
sometimes you are not in another planet ; but then I 
don't like to ask Capt. Burney, or any of those that 
know anything about it, for fear of exposing my 
ignorance. 

172 



Mrs. Johnson's Pick-Axe 

Our kindest remembrances, however, to Mrs. F., if 
she will accept of reminiscences from another planet, or 
at least another hemisphere. C. L. 



The Dean extemporises to Dr. Sheridan ^^^ ^^ 
(To Dr. Sheridan) 

Jamiary 25, 1724-5 

I HAVE a packet of letters, which I intended to send 
by Molly, who has been stopped three days by the 
bad weather; but now I will send them by the post 
to-morrow to Kells, and enclosed to Mr. Tickell ; there 
is one to you and one to James Stopford. 

I can do no work this terrible weather ; which has put 
us all seventy times out of patience. I have been deaf 
nine days, and am now pretty well recovered again. 

Pray desire Mr. Stanton and Mr. Worral to continue 
giving themselves some trouble with Mr, Pratt ; but let 
it succeed or not, I hope I shall be easy. 

Mrs. Johnson swears it will rain till Michaelmas. 
She is so pleased with her pick-axe, that she wears it 
fastened to her girdle on her left side, in balance with 
her watch. The lake is strangely overflown, and we are 
desperate about turf, being forced to lay it three miles 
off; and Mrs. Johnson (God help her!) gives you many 
a curse. Your mason is come, but cannot yet work upon 
your garden. Neither can I agree with him about the 
great wall. For the rest, vide the letter you will have on 
Monday, if Mr. Tickell uses you well. 

The news of the country is, that the maid you sent 
down, John Farelly's sister, is married ; but the portion 
and settlement are yet a secret. The cows here never 
give milk on Midsummer Eve. 
173 



The Servants' Maxim 

You would wonder what carking and caring there is 
among us for small beer and lean mutton, and stewed 
lamb, and stopping gaps, and driving cattle from the 
covers. In that we are all-to-be-Dingleyed. 

The ladies' room smokes, the rain drops from the skies 
into the kitchen, our servants eat and drink like the devil, 
and pray for rain, which entertains them at cards and 
sleep, which are revels lighter than spades, sledges, and 
crows. Their maxim is — 

Eat like a Turk, 

Sleep like a dormouse, 
Be last at work, 

At victuals foremost. 

Which is all at present ; hoping you and your good family 
are well, as we are all at this present writing, etc. 

Robin has just carried out a load of bread and cold 
meat for breakfast; this is their way; but now a cloud 
hangs over them, for fear it should hold up, and the 
clouds blow off. 

I write on till Molly comes in for the letter. O, what 
a draggletail she will be before she gets to Dublin! I 
wish she may not happen to fall upon her back by the 
way. 

I affirm against Aristotle that cold and rain congregate 
homogenes, for they gather together you and your crew, 
at whist, punch, and claret. Happy weather for Mr. 
Mauls, Betty, and Stopford, and all true lovers of cards 
and laziness. 

Blessings of a Country Life 

Far from our debtors, 
No Dublin letters, 
Not seen by our betters. 
174 



William Cowper's Morning 

The Plagues of a Country Life 

A companion with news, 
A great want of shoes ; 
Eat lean meat, or choose ; 
A church without pews. 
Our horses astray. 
No straw, oats, or hay ; 
December in May, 
Our boys now away, 
Our servants at play. 



William Cowper looks backward ^^ ^^^ ^^:> 

(To the Rev. John Newton) 

February lo, 1784 
T DEAR FRIEND, — The morning is my writing 



M' 



time, and in the morning I have no spirits. So 
much the worse for my correspondents. Sleep that re- 
freshes my body, seems to cripple me in every other 
respect. 

As the evening approaches, I grow more alert, and 
when I am retiring to bed, am more fit for mental occupa- 
tion than at any other time. 

So it fares with us whom they call nervous. By a 
strange inversion of the animal economy, we are ready 
to sleep when we have most need to be awake, and go to 
bed just when we might sit up to some purpose. 

The watch is irregularly wound up, it goes in the night 
when it is not wanted, and in the day stands still. 

In many respects we have the advantage of our fore- 
fathers the Picts. We sleep in a whole skin, and are not 
obliged to submit to the painful operation of puncturing 
ourselves from head to foot in order that we may be 
decently dressed, and fit to appear abroad. 
175 



The Happy Picts 

But, on the other hand, we have reason enough to envy 
them their tone of nerves, and that flow of spirits which 
effectually secured them from all uncomfortable im- 
pressions of a gloomy atmosphere, and from every shade 
of melancholy from every other cause. They under- 
stood, I suppose, the use of vulnerary herbs, having 
frequent occasion for some skill in surgery ; but physi- 
cians, I presume, they had none, having no need of any. 

Is it possible, that a creature like myself can be de- 
scended from such progenitors, in whom there appears 
not a single trace of family resemblance? 

What an alteration have a few ages made? They, 
without clothing, would defy the severest season ; and I, 
with all the accommodations that art has since invented, 
am hardly secure even in the mildest. 

If the wind blows upon me when my pores are open, 
I catch cold. A cough is the consequence. 

I suppose if such a disorder could have seized a Pict, 
his friends would have concluded that a bone had stuck 
in his throat, and that he was in some danger of choking. 

They would perhaps have addressed themselves to the 
cure of his cough by thrusting their fingers into his 
gullet, which would only have exasperated the case. 

But they would never have thought of administering 
laudanum, my only remedy. For this difference, how- 
ever, that has obtained between me and my ancestors, 
I am indebted to the luxurious practices, and enfeebling 
self-indulgence, of a long line of grandsires, who from 
generation to generation have been employed in de- 
teriorating the breed, till at last the collected effects of 
all their follies have centred in my puny self, — a man 
indeed, but not in the image of those that went before 
me ; — a man, who sighs and groans, who wears out life in 
dejection and oppression of spirits, and who never thinks 
176 



The Visionary Adam 

of the aborigines of the country to which he belongs, 
without wishing that he had been born among them. 
The evil is without a remedy, unless the ages that are 
passed could be recalled, my whole pedigree being per- 
mitted to live again, and being properly admonished to 
beware of enervating slotli and refinement, would preserve 
their hardiness of nature unimpaired, and transmit the 
desirable quality to their posterity. I once saw Adam 
in a dream. We sometimes say of a picture, that we 
doubt not its likeness to the original, though we never 
saw him ; a judgment we have some reason to form, when 
the face is strongly charactered, and the features full of 
expression. 

So I think of my visionary Adam, and for a similar 
reason. His figure was awkward in the extreme. It was 
evident that he had never been taught by a Frenchman to 
hold his head erect, or to turn out his toes; to dispose 
gracefully of his arms, or to simper without a meaning. 
But if Mr. Bacon was called upon to produce a statue of 
Hercules, he need not wish for a juster pattern. He 
stood like a rock ; the size of his limbs, the prominence of 
his muscles, and the height of his stature, all conspired 
to bespeak him a creature whose strength had suffered 
no diminution ; and who, being the first of his race, did 
not come into the world under a necessity of sustaining 
a load of infirmities, derived to him from the intemper- 
ance of others. 

He was as much stouter than a Pict, as I suppose a 
Pict to have been than I. Upon my hypothesis, there- 
fore, there has been a gradual declension, in point of 
bodily vigour, from Adam down to me ; at least if my 
dream were a just representation of that gentleman, and 
deserve the credit I cannot help giving it, such must have 
been the case. — Yours, my dear friend, W. C. 

N 177 



Christmas in China 
Charles Lamb invents for Manning "=^ ^:^ ^::i^ 

December 25, 181 5 

DEAR OLD FRIEND AND ABSENTEE, — This 
is Christmas-day 181 5 with us; what it may be 
with you I don't know, the 12th of June next year per- 
haps ; and if it should be the consecrated season with 
you, I don't see how you can keep it. You have no 
turkeys ; you would not desecrate the festival by offering 
up a withered Chinese bantam, instead of the savoury 
grand Norfolcian holocaust, that smokes all around my 
nostrils at this moment from a thousand firesides. Then 
what puddings have you? Where will you get holly to 
stick in your churches, or churches to stick your dried 
tea-leaves (that must be the substitute) in? What 
memorials you can have of the holy time, I see not. A 
chopped missionary or two may keep up the thin idea 
of Lent and the wilderness ; but what standing evidence 
have you of the Nativity? — 'tis our rosy-cheeked, home- 
stalled divines, whose faces shine to the tune of Unto us 
a child \ faces fragrant with the mince-pies of half a 
century, that alone can authenticate the cheerful mystery 
— I feel. 

I feel my bowels refreshed with the holy tide — my zeal 
is great against the unedified heathen. Down with the 
Pagodas — down with the idols — Ching-chong-fo — and his 
foolish priesthood ! Come out of Babylon, O my friend ! 
for her time is come, and the child that is native, and 
the Proselyte of her gates, shall kindle and smoke 
together ! And in sober sense what makes you so long 
from among us, Manning? You must not expect to see 
the same England again which you left. 

Empires have been overturned, crowns trodden into 
dust, the face of the western world quite changed : your 
178 



A Tissue of Good Lies 

friends have all got old — those you left blooming — myself 
(who am one of the few that remember you) those golden 
hairs which you recollect my taking a pride in, turned to 
silvery and grey. Mary has been dead and buried many 
years — she desired to be buried in the silk gown you 
sent her. Rickman, that you remember active and 
strong, now walks out supported by a servant maid and 
a stick. Martin Burney is a very old man. The other 
day an aged woman knocked at my door, and pretended 
to my acquaintance ; it was long before I had the most 
distant cognition of her; but at last together we made 
her out to be Louisa, the daughter of Mrs. Topham, 
formerly Mrs. Morton, who had been Mrs. Reynolds, 
formerly Mrs. Kenney, whose first husband was Holcroft, 
the dramatic writer of the last century. St. PauPs Church 
is a heap of ruins ; the Monument isn't half so high as 
you knew it, divers parts being successively taken down 
which the ravages of time had rendered dangerous ; the 
horse at Charing Cross is gone, no one knows whither, — 
and all this has taken place while you have been settling 

whether Ho-hing-tong should be spelt with a or a 

. For aught I see you had almost as well remain 

where you are, and not come like a Struldbug into a 
world wliere few were born when you went away. Scarce 
here and there one will be able to make out your face ; 
all your opinions will be out of date, your jokes obsolete, 
your puns rejected with fastidiousness as wit of the last 
age. Your way of mathematics has already given way 
to a new method, which after all is, I believe, the old 
doctrine of Maclaurin, new-vamped up with what he 
borrowed of the negative quantity of fluxions from 
Euler. 

Poor Godwin ! I was passing his tomb the other day 
in Cripplegate churchyard. There are some verses 
179 



Exaggerated Deaths 

upon it written by Miss Hayes, which if I thought good 
enough I would send you. He was one of those who 
would have hailed your return, not with boisterous shouts 
and clamours, but with the complacent gratulations of 
a philosopher anxious to promote knowledge as lead- 
ing to happiness — but his systems and his theories are 
ten feet deep in Cripplegate mould. Coleridge is just 
dead, having lived just long enough to close the eyes 
of Wordsworth, who paid the debt to nature but a 
week or two before. Poor Col., but two days before 
he died he wrote to a bookseller proposing an epic 
poem on the "Wanderings of Cain," in twenty-four 
books. It is said he has left behind him more than 
forty thousand treatises in criticism and metaphysics, 
but few of them in a state of completion. They are now 
destined, perhaps, to wrap up spices. You see what 
mutations the busy hand of Time has produced, while 
you have consumed in foolish voluntary exile that time 
which might have gladdened your friends — benefited 
your country ; but reproaches are useless. Gather up 
the wretched reliques, my friend as fast as you can, and 
come to your old home. I will rub my eyes and try to 
recognise you. We will shake withered hands together, 
and talk of old things — of St. Mary's Church and the 
barber's opposite, where the young students in mathe- 
matics used to assemble. Poor Crisp, that kept it after- 
wards, set up a fruiterer's shop in Trumpington Street, 
and for aught I know, resides there still, for I saw the 
name up in the last journey I took there with my sister 
just before she died. I suppose you heard that I had 
left the India House, and gone into the Fishmongers' 
Almshouses over the bridge. I have a little cabin there, 
small and homely ; but you shall be welcome to it. You 
like oysters, and to open them yourself; I'll get you 
1 80 



Bribing a Dean 

some if you come in oyster time. Marshall, Godwin^s 
old friend, is still alive, and talks of the faces you used to 
make. Come as soon as you can. 

C. Lamb 



M' 



The Dean jests with Miss Hoadley ^:> <:^ ^> 

June \, 1734 
[ADAM, — When I lived in England, once every 
L year I issued out an edict, commanding that all 
ladies of wit, sense, merit, and quahty, who had an 
ambition to be acquainted with me, should make the 
first advances at their peril; which edict, you may 
beUeve, was universally obeyed. When (much against 
my will) I came to live in this kingdom, I published 
the same edict ; only, the harvest here being not 
altogether so plentiful, I confined myself to a smaller 
compass. This made me often wonder how you came 
so long to neglect your duty; for, if you pretend 
ignorance, I may produce legal witnesses against 

you. 

I have heard of a judge bribed with a pig, but it was 
discovered by the squeaking; and, therefore, you have 
been so politic as to send me a dead one, which can tell 
no tales. Your present of butter was made with the 
same design, as a known court practice, to grease my 
fist that I might keep silence. These are great offences, 
contrived on purpose to corrupt my integrity. And, 
besides, I apprehend, that if I should wait on you to 
return my thanks, you will deny that the pig and butter 
were any advances at all on your side, and give out 
that I made them first: by which I may endanger the 
fundamental privilege, that I have kept so many years 
i8i 



A Dean's Threats 

in the kingdom, at least make it a point of controversy. 
However, I have two ways to be revenged : first, I will 
let all the ladies of my acquaintance know, that you, the 
sole daughter and child of his Grace of Dublin, one so 
mean as to descend to understand housewifery ; which 
every girl of this town, who can afford sixpence a month 
for a chair, would scorn to be thought to have the least 
knowledge in ; and this will give you as ill a reputation 
as if you had been caught in the act of reading a history, 
or handling a needle, or working in a field at Tallagh. 
My other revenge shall be this : when my lord's gentle- 
man delivered his message, after I put him some 
questions, he drew out a paper containing your direc- 
tions, and in your hand ; I said it properly belonged 
to me ; and, when I had read it, I put it in my pocket, 
and am ready to swear, when lawfully called, that it is 
written in a fair hand, rightly spelt, and good plain 
sense. You now may see I have you at mercy; for, 
upon the least offence given, I will show the paper to 
every female scrawler I meet, who will soon spread 
about the town that your writing and spelling are 
ungenteel and unfashionable, more like a parson than 
a lady. 

I suppose, by this time, you are willing to submit ; 
and, therefore, I desire you may stint me to two china 
bowls of butter a-week ; for my breakfast is that of 
a sickly man, rice gruel, and I am wholly a stranger to 
tea and coffee, the companions of bread and butter. 
I received my third bowl last night, and I think my 
second is almost entire. I hope and believe my lord 
archbishop will teach his neighbouring tenants and 
farmers a little English country management; and I 
lay it upon you, madam, to bring housewifery in fashion 
among our ladies; that, by your example, they may no 
182 



Prose in Verse 

longer pride themselves on their natural or affected igno- 
rance. — I am, with the truest respect and esteem, Madam, 
your most obedient and obliged, etc., 

Jon. Swift 

I desire to present my most etc., to his grace and the 
ladies. 



William Cowper drops into verse <^ ^^^ ^=;> 
(To the Rev. John Newton) 

July 12, 1 78 1 

MY VERY DEAR FRIEND, — I am going to send, 
what when you have read, you may scratch your 
head, and say, I suppose, there's nobody knows, whether 
wdiat I have got be verse or not : by the tune and the 
time, it ought to be rhyme ; but if it be, did you ever see, 
of late or of yore, such a ditty before? Tlie thought did 
occur to me and to her, as Madam and I, did walk and 
not fly, over hills and dales, with spreading sails, before 
it was dark, to Weston Park. 

The news at Oney is little or noney, but such as it is, 
I send it, viz. — Poor Mr. Peace cannot yet cease addling 
his head with what you said, and has left parish-church 
quite in the lurch, having almost swore to go there no 
more. 

Page and his wife, that made such a strife, we met 
them twain in Dog Lane ; we gave them the wall, and 
that was all. For Mr. Scott, we have seen him not, 
except as he pass'd, in a wonderful haste, to see a friend 
in Silver End. Mrs. Jones proposes, ere July closes, 
that she and her sister, and her Jones Mister, and we 
that are here, our course shall steer to dine in the 
183 



Epistolary Champagne 

Spinney; but for a guinea, if the weather should hold 
so hot and so cold, we had better by far stay where we 
are. For the grass there grows while nobody mows 
(which is very wrong) so rank and long, that, so to 
speak, 'tis at least a week, if it happens to rain, ere it 
dries again. I have writ Charity, not for popularity, but 
as well as I could, in hopes to do good ; and if the 
Reviewer should say " to be sure, the gentleman's Muse 
wears Methodist shoes ; you may know by her pace, and 
talk about grace, that she and her bard have little regard 
for the taste and fashions, and ruling passions, and 
hoidening play, of the modern day; and though she 
assume a borrowed plume, and now and then wear 
a tittering air, 'tis only her plan to catch if she can 
the giddy and gay, as they go that way, by a produc- 
tion on a new construction. She has baited her 
trap in hopes to snap all that may come with a sugar- 
plum." — 

His opinion in this will not be amiss ; 'tis what I 
intend, my principal end; and if I succeed, and folks 
should read, till a few are brought to a serious thought, 
I shall think I am paid for all I have said and all I 
have done, though I have run, many a time, after a 
rhyme, as far as from hence to the end of my sense, and 
by hook or crook, write another book, if I live and am 
here, another year. I have heard before, of a room with 
a floor laid upon springs and such like things, with so 
much art, in every part, that when you went in, you was 
forced to begin a minuet pace, with an air and a grace, 
swimming about, now in and now out, with a deal of 
state, in a figure of eight, without pipe or string, or any 
such thing ; and now I have writ, in a rhyming fit, what 
will make you dance, and as you advance, will keep you 
still, though against your will, dancing away, alert and gay, 
184 



Against Tartary 

till you come to an end of what I have penn'd ; which 
that you may do ere Madam and you are quite worn 
out with jigging about, I take my leave, and here you 
receive a bow profound, down to the ground, from your 
humble me — W. C. 



PS. — When I concluded, doubtless you did think me 
right, as well you might, in saying what I said of Scott ; 
and then it was true, but now it is due to him to note, 
that since I wrote, himself and he has visited we. 



Charles Lamb cries out against Tartary ^^ ^^:> 

[February 19, 1803] 

MY DEAR MANNING, — The general scope of your 
letter afforded no indications of insanity, but 
some particular points raised a scruple. For God's 
sake don't think any more of "Independent Tartary."' 
What have you to do among such Ethiopians? Is there 
no lineal descendant of Prester John .'' 

Is the chair empty? Is the sword unswayed ? — depend 
uponH they'll never make you their king, as long as any 
branch of that great stock is remaining. I tremble for 
your Christianity. They'll certainly circumcise you. Read 
Sir John MaundeviPs travels to cure you, or come over 
to England. There is a Tartar-man now exhibiting at 
Exeter Change. Come and talk with him, and hear 
what he says first. Indeed, he is no very favorable 
specimen of his Countrymen ! But perhaps the best 
thing you can do, is to t7y to get the idea out of your 
head. For this purpose repeat to yourself every night, 
after you have said your prayers, the words Independent 
Tartary, Independent Tartary, two or three times, and 
185 



Chaucer's Darling Things 

associate with them the idea of oblivion (His Hartley's 
method with obstinate memories), or say, Independent, 
Independent, have I not ah'eady got an Independence ? 
That was a clever way of the old puritans — pun-divinity. 
My dear friend, think what a sad pity it would be to bury 
such parts in heathen countries, among nasty, uncon- 
versable, horse-belching, Tartar people! Some say, they 
are Cannibals ; and then conceive a Tartar-fellow eating 
my friend, and adding the cool malignity of mustard and 
vinegar! I am afraid 'tis the reading of Chaucer has 
misled you ; his foolish stories about Cambuscan and the 
ring, and the horse of brass. Believe me, there's no such 
things, 'tis all the poet's invention ; but if there were such 
darling things as old Chaucer sings, I would np behind 
you on the Horse of Brass, and frisk off for Prester 
John's Country. But these are all tales ; a Horse of 
Brass never flew, and a King's daughter never talked 
with Birds! The Tartars, really, are a cold, insipid, 
smouchey set. You'll be sadly moped (if you are not 
eaten) among them. Pray try and cure yourself. Take 
Hellebore (the counsel is Horace's, 'twas none of my 
thought originally'). Shave yourself oftener. Eat no 
saffron, for saffron-eaters contract a terrible Tartar-like 
yellow. Pray, to avoid the fiend. Eat nothing that 
gives the heart-burn. Shave the upper lip. Go about 
like an European. Read no books of voyages (they're 
nothing but lies) : only now and then a Romance, to 
keep the fancy ujider. Above all, don't go to any sights 
of %vild beasts. That has been your ruin. Accustom 
yourself to write famihar letters on common subjects to 
your friends in England, such as are of a moderate 
understanding. And think about common things more. 
There's your friend Holcroft now has written a play. 
You used to be fond of the drama. Nobody went to 
1 86 



Shakespeare the Gentleman 

see it. Notwithstanding this, with an audacity perfectly 
original, he faces the town down in a preface, that they 
did like it very much. I have heard a waspish punster 
say, "Sir, why did you not laugh at my jest?" But for 
a man boldly to face me out with, " Sir, I maintain it, 
you did laugh at my jest," is a little too much. I have 
seen H. but once. He spoke of you to me in honourable 
terms. H. seems to me to be drearily dull. Godwin is 
dull, but then he has a dash of affectation, which smacks 
of the coxcomb, and your coxcombs are always agreeable. 
I supped last night with Rickman, and met a merry 
natural captain, who pleases himself vastly with once 
having made a Pun at Otaheite in the O. language. ''Tis 
the same man who said Shakspeare he liked, because 
he was so much of the Gentleman. Rickman is a man 
" absolute in all numbers." I think I may one day bring 
you acquainted, if you do not go to Tartary first ; for 
you'll never come back. Have a care, my dear friend, 
of Anthropophagi ! their stomachs are always craving. 
But if you do go among [them] pray contrive to stink as 
soon as you can that you may [? not] hang a [? on] hand 
at the Butcher's. 'Tis terrible to be weighed out for 5d. 
a-pound. To sit at table (the reverse of fishes in Holland), 
not as a guest, but as a meat. 

God bless you : do come to England. Air and exercise 
inay do great things. Talk with some Minister. Why 
not your father? 

God dispose all for the best. I have discharged my 
duty. — Your sincere frd, C. Lamb 



187 



The " Crismiss " Dinner 
W. M. Thackeray thanks a friend for two geese ^oy 

{Now for the first time published^ 

36 Onslow Square, December 27, 18 — 

DEAR CARTER, — I should be an ungrateful wretch 
if I didn't tell you that the geese were excellent. 
The servants polished theirs entirely off; and ours was 
admired and appreciated by everybody who partook 
thereof. I carved it, and I need not say some of the 
best slices of the bosom were appropriated to yours 
gratefully, W. M. Thackeray 

\_Here a drawing of geese on a cojnmon\ 

Hymn the First 

The housewives of a former age 
Were wont to stuff a Goose with sage. 
You put the Bird to nobler use, 
Carter ! and stuff a Sage with goose. 

Hymn the Second 

" Lawk, Miss Anny, Lawk, Miss Minny ! " thus cries Gray the cook, 
" Two such beautiful geese is come ! Only come and look ! 

" Lor, how plump and brown they'll be! Lor, how plump and 

juicy ! 
Well, of hall things I declare I do love a goosey ! 

" Two fat geese, how genteel ! Only think of this, miss ! 
Don't they come convenient for the dinner at Crismiss ! 

" One shall be for the Servants' 'All, and one for parlour arter. 
And I never shall see a goose again, without thinking of Mr. 
Carter." 

188 



A Sporting Offer 

"That I won't," says Mrs. Gray the cook, with her duty, and 

the best compliments of the season. 
And the same she hopes nex year. 



\Here a boy stajiding on his head, with " Turn over " 
written beneath^ 

On second thoughts, and in allusion to a painful 
transaction last year: 

No, this pun is so dreadfully bad, 

I think I never can, sir, 
But when a man sends me 
A goose and a deuced kind letter, I think I might send him 
an anser. 

Well, I will next year, that's all I have to say. 



Robert Louis Stevenson offers to exchange bodies 
with Cosmo Monkhouse ^ ^^:> ^^ 

La Solitude, Hyeres, April 2^, 1884 

DEAR MONKHOUSE,— If you are in love with 
repose, here is your occasion : change with me. 
I am too blind to read, hence no reading ; I am too 
weak to walk, hence no walking ; I am not allowed to 
speak, hence no talking ; but the great simplification 
has yet to be named ; for, if this goes on, I shall soon 
have nothing to eat — and hence, O Hallelujah! hence 
no eating. The offer is a fair one : I have not sold 
myself to the devil, for I could never find him. I am 
married, but so are you. I sometimes write verses, but 
so do you! Come! Hie quies I As for the command- 
ments, I have broken them so small that they are the 
I So 



Well-mannered Remorses 

dust of my chambers ; you walk upon them, triturate 
and toothless ; and with the Golosh of Philosophy, they 
shall not bite your heel. True, the tenement is falling. 
Ay, friend, but yours also. Take a larger view ; what 
is a year or two ? dust in the balance ! 'Tis done, behold 
you Cosmo Stevenson, and me R. L. Monkhouse ; you 
at Hyeres, I in London ; you rejoicing in the clam- 
miest repose, me proceeding to tear your tabernacle 
into rags, as I have already so admirably torn my 
own. 

My place to which I now introduce you — it is yours — 
is like a London house, high and very narrow ; upon the 
lungs I will not linger ; the heart is large enough for a 
ballroom ; the belly greedy and inefficient ; the brain 
stocked with the most damnable explosives, like a dyna- 
miter's den. The whole place is well furnished, though 
not in a very pure taste ; Corinthian much of it ; showy 
and not strong. 

About your place I shall try to find my way alone, an 
interesting exploration. Imagine me, as I go to bed, 
falHng over a blood-stained remorse ; opening that cup- 
board in the cerebellum and being welcomed by the 
spirit of your murdered uncle. I should probably not 
like your remorses ; I wonder if you will like mine ; 
I have a spirited assortment ; they whistle in my ear 
o' nights like a north-easter. I trust yours don't dine ' 
with the family ; mine are better mannered ; you will 
hear nought of them till 2 a.m., except one, to be sure, 
that I have made a pet of, but he is small ; I keep him 
in buttons, so as to avoid commentaries; you will like 
him much — if you like what is genuine. 

Must we likewise change religions? Mine is a good 
article, with a trick of stopping ; cathedral bell note ; 
ornamental dial; supported by Venus and the Graces; 
I go 



The Pigtail 



quite a summer-parlour piety. Of yours, since your last, 
I fear there is little to be said. 

There is one article I wish to take away with me : my 
spirits. They suit me. I don't want yours ; I like my 
own; I have had them a long while in bottle. It is 
my only reservation. — Yours (as you decide), 

R. L. MONKHOUSE 



An able-bodied seaman asks his brother to be sure to 
get him a creature comfort ^^ ^^ ^^^ 

Warreii Hastings 
East Indianman, off Gravesend 

March 24 

DEAR BRO' TOM, — This cums hopein to find you 
in good helth as it leaves me safe ankord here 
yesterday at 4 p.m., arter a plesent vyage tolerable short 
and few squalls. Dear Tom, hopes to find poor old 
father stout. Am quite out of pigtail. Sights of pigtail 
at Gravesend but unfortinly not fit for a dogtochor. 
Dear Tom, Captains boy will bring you this and put 
pigtail in his pocket when bort. Best in London at the 
black boy 7 diles where go, ax for best pigtail, pound a 
pigtail will do. And am short of shirts. Dear Tom, as 
for shirts onley took 2, whereof i is quite wore out and 
tother most, but don't forget the pigtail as I arnt had 
here a quid to chor never sins Thursday. Dear Tom as 
for the shirts your size will do only longer. I liks um 
long, got one at present, best at Tower hill and cheap, 
but be pertickler to go to 7 diles for the pigtail, at the 
black boy and dear Tom ax for a pound of best pigtail 
and let it be good. Captains boy will put the pigtail in 
his pocket, he likes pigtail so tie it up. Dear Tom shall 
191 



The Polite Boys 

be up about Monday or thereabouts. Not so pertickler 
for the shirts as the present can be washed, but dont 
forget the pigtail without fail, so am your lovein brother, 

Jack 
F.S. — Dont forget the pigtail. 



Letter from a young gentleman to his companion 
recovered from a fit of sickness "^^^ ^^^ ^^^^ 

(^From an old Manual^ 

IT gives me the most sincere pleasure to hear that my 
dear Tommy is recovering his health so rapidly. 
Had you died it would have been to me a most terrible 
loss ; but it has pleased God to preserve my friend. 

I will take the first opportunity that offers to call and 
tell you how valuable your life is to your sincere friend 
and playfellow. 

Answer 

YOUR obliging letter, my dear Billy, is a fresh proof 
of your friendship and esteem for me. I thank 
God I am now perfectly recovered. I am in ^some doubt 
whether I ought not to consider my late illness as a just 
punishment for my crime of robbing Mr. Goodman's 
orchard, breaking his boughs and spoiling his hedges. 
However I am fully determined that evermore no such 
complaints shall come against your sincere friend and 
playfellow. 



[92 



IX 

FIRST PERSON SINGULAR 

Thomas Carlyle tells all the news ^^^ ^^^ ^::^ 

I 
(To Dr. Carlyle, Naples) 

Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London, /?/«^ 17, 1834 

MY DEAR BROTHER, — You can fancy what weary 
lonesome wanderings I had, through the dirty 
suburbs, and along the burning streets, under a fierce 
May sun with east wind ; " seeking through the natives 
for some habitation " ! At length Jane sent me comfort- 
able tidings of innumerable difficulties overcome ; and 
finally (in, I think, the fourth week) arrived herself; 
with the Furniture all close following her, in one of 
Pickford's Trade-boats. I carried her to certain of the 
hopefuUest looking houses I had fallen in with, and a 
toilsome time we anew had : however, it was not long ; 
for, on the second inspection, this old Chelsea Mansion 
pleased very decidedly far better than any other we 
could see; and, the people also whom it belongs to 
proving reasonable, we soon struck a bargain, and in 
o 193 



Arrival at Cheyne Row 

three days more (precisely this very week) a Hackney 
Coach, loaded to the roof and beyond it with luggage 
and live-passengers, tumbled us all down here about 
eleven in the morning. By "all" I mean my Dame 
and myself; Bessy Barnet, who had come the night 
before; and — little Chico, the Canary-bird, who imdtum 
jactattcs, did nevertheless arrive living and well from 
Puttock, and even sang violently all the way by sea or 
land, nay struck up his //// in the very London streets 
wherever he could see green leaves and feel the free 
air. There then we sat on three trunks ; I, however, 
with a matchbox soon lit a cigar, as Bessy did a fire ; 
and thus with a kind and cheerful solemnity we took 
possession by "raising reek," and even dined, in an 
extempore fashion, on a box-lid covered with some 
accidental towel. At two o'clock the Pickfords did 
arrive ; and then began the hurly-burly ; which even yet 
is but grown quieter, will not grow quiet, for a fortnight 
to come. 

However, the rooms and two bedrooms are now in 
a partially civilised state ; the broken Furniture is mostly 
mended ; I have my old writing-table again (here) firm 
as Atlas ; a large wainscoted drawing-room (which is 
to be my study) with the " red carpet " tightly spread 
on it ; my Books all safe in Presses ; the Belisarius 
Picture right in front of me over the mantelpiece (most 
suitable to its new wainscot lodging), and my beloved 
Segretario Ambiilaiite right behind, with the two old 
Italian engravings, and others that I value less, dis- 
persed around ; and so, opposite the middle of my three 
windows, with little but huge Scotch elm-trees looking in 
on one, and in the distances an ivied House, and a 
sunshiny sky bursting out from genial rain. I sit here 
already very much at home, and impart to my dear and 
194 



Chelsea in 1834 

true brother a thankfulness which he is sure to share in. 
We have indeed very much reason to be thankful every 
way. 

With the House we are all highly pleased, and, I 
think, the better, the longer we know it hitherto. I 
know not if you ever were at Chelsea, especially at 
Old Chelsea, of which this is a portion. It stretches 
from Battersea Bridge (a queer wooden structure, where 
they charge you a half-penny) along the bank of the 
River, Westward a little way; and Eastward (which is 
our side) some quarter of a mile, forming a '^Cheyne 
Walk" (pronounced Chainie walk) of really grand old 
brick mansions, dating perhaps from Charles ii.'s time 
(" Don Saltero's Coifeehouse " of the Tatler is still fresh 
and brisk among them), with flagged pavement; 
carriage way between two rows of stubborn looking high 
old pollarded trees ; and then the river with its varied 
small craft, fast moving or safe-moored, and the whole- 
some smell (among the breezes) of sea tar. Cheyne 
Row (or Great Cheyne Row, when we wish to be grand) 
runs up at right angles from this, has two twenty Houses 
of the same fashion ; Upper Cheyne Row (where Hunt 
lives) turning again at right angles, some stone-cast 
from this door. 

Frontwards we have the outlook I have described 
already (or if we shove out our head, the River is dis- 
closed some hundred paces to the left) ; backwards, 
from the ground floor, our own gardenkin (which I with 
new garden-tools am actively re-trimming every morning), 
and, from all other floors, nothing but leafy clumps, and 
green fields, and red high peaked roofs glimmering 
through them : a most clear, pleasant prospect, in these 
fresh westerly airs ! Of London nothing visible but 
Westminster Abbey and the topmost dome of St. Paul's; 
195 



" Gigmanity " again 

other faint ghosts of spires (one other at least) disclose 
themselves, as the smoke-clouds shift ; but I have not 
yet made out what they are. At night we are pure and 
silent, almost as at Puttock ; and the gas-light shimmer 
of the great Babylon hangs stretched from side to side 
of our horizon. To Buckingham Gate it is thirty-two 
minutes of my walking (Allan Cunningham's door about 
half-way) ; nearly the very same to Hyde-Park Corner, 
to which latter point we have omnibuses every quarter 
of an hour (they say) that carry you to the White 
Horse Cellar, or even to Coventry Street for sixpence ; 
calling for you at the very threshold. Nothing was 
ever so discrepant in my experience as the Craigen- 
puttock-silence of this House, and then the world- 
hubbub of London and its people into which a few 
minutes brings you: I feel as if a day spent between 
the two must be the epitome of a month. . . . 

The rent is ^35; which really seems ;^io cheaper 
than such a House could be had for in Dumfries or 
Annan. The secret is an old friend, " Gigmanity " : 
Chelsea is unfashionable; it is also reported unhealthy. 

The former quality we rather like (for our neighbours 
are all polite-living people) ; the latter we do not in the 
faintest degree believe in, remembering that Chelsea was 
once considered the " London Montpelier," and knowing 
that in these matters now as formerly the Cockneys 
''know nothing," only rush in masses blindly and 
sheep-wise. Our worst fault is the want of a good free 
rustic walk, like Kensington Gardens, which are above 
a mile off: however, we have the "College" or Hospital 
grounds, with their withered old pensioners ; we have 
open carriage ways, and lanes, and really a very pretty 
route to Piccadilly (different from the omnibus route) 
through the new Grosvenor edifices, Eaton Square, 
196 



Literary Projects 



Belgrave Place, etc. I have also walked to Westminster 
Hall by Vauxhall, Bridge-End, Millbank, etc. ; but the 
road is squalid, confused, dusty and detestable, and 
happily need not be returned to. To conclude, we are 
here on literary classical ground, as Hunt is continually 
ready to declare and unfold : not a stone-cast from this 
House Smollett wrote his Count Fathom (the house is 
ruined and we happily do not see it) ; hardly a stone- 
cast off, old More entertained Erasmus : to say nothing 
of Bolingbroke St. John, of Paradise Row and the Count 
de Grammont, for in truth we care almost nothing for 
them. 

On the w^hole we are exceedingly content so far ; and 
have reason to be so. I add only that our furniture came 
with wonderfully little breakage, and for less than ^20, 
Annan included ; that Jane sold all her odd things to 
Nanny Macqueen on really fair terms ; and that we find 
new furniture of all sorts exceedingly cheap here, and 
have already got what we need, or nearly so, for less than 
our own old good brought us on the spot. . . . 

There is now a word to be said on Economics, and the 
Commissariat Department. Book selling is still at its 
lowest ebb ; yet on the whole better than I expected to 
find it. Eraser is the only craftsman I have yet seen : 
he talks still of loss by his magazine ; and I think will 
not willingly employ me much, were I never so ready, at 
the old rate of writing. He seems a well-intentioned 
creature ; I can really pity him in the place he occupies. 

I went yesterday with a project of a series of articles 
on French Revolutionary matters, chiefly to be trans- 
lated from Memoirs : but he could not take them, at my 
rate, or indeed at almost any rate; for he spoke of ^10 
a sheet as quite a ransom. He has got my name (such 
as it is), and can do better without me. However, he 
197 



"The More Gigantic Spirit" 

will cheerfully print (for "• half-profits," that is, zero) a 
projected Book of mine on the French Revolution; to 
which accordingly, if no new thing occur, I shall 
probably very soon with all my heart address myself in 
full purpose to do 7ny best, and put my name to it. The 
Diamond Necklace Paper his Boy got from me, by ap- 
pointment, this morning ; to be examined whether it will 
make a Book ; as an Article I shall perhaps hardly think 
of giving it to him. For, you are to understand, that the 
Radical Review of Mill's, after seeming to be quite 
abandoned, has now a far fairer chance of getting 
started: a Sir W. Molesworth, a young man whom I 
have seen at BuUer's and liked, offers to furnish all the 
money himself (and can do it, being very rich), and to 
take no further hand in it, once a manager that will 
please Mill is found for it. Mill is to be here to-morrow 
evening : I think I must appoint some meeting with 
Molesworth, and give him my whole views of it, and 
express my readiness to take a most hearty hold of it ; 
having the prospect of right companions ; none yet but 
Mill and Buller, and such as we may further approve of 
and add. It seems likely something may come of this. 
In any other case. Periodical Authorship, like all other 
forms of it, seems done in the economical sense. I think 
of quite abandoning it ; of writing my Book ; and then, 
with such name as it may give me, starting some new 
course, or courses, to make honest ways by. A poor 
Fanny Wright (whom we are to hear to-night in Free- 
masons' Hall) goes lecturing over the whole world: 
before eight, I will engage to lecture twice as well; 
being, as Glen once said, with great violence to me, 
" the more gigantic spirit of the two." 

On the whole I fear nothing. There are funds here 
already to keep us going above a year, independently of 
198 



The Postman's Knock 

all incomings : before that we 7nay have seen into much, 
tried much, and succeeded somewhat. 

"God's providence they cannot hinder thee of": that 
is the thing I always repeat to myself, or know without 
repeating, . . . 

God bless you, dear Brother ! Vale 7nei memor. 

T. Carlyle 

II 

(To his sister, Mrs. Aitken, Dumfries) 

5 Cheyne Row, Chelsea, London, /?/'/k 6, 1834 

MY DEAR JEAN, — Your Letter, which was the first I 
had received from any of my Friends in Scotland, 
proved one of the welcomest I ever got. The Postman's 
two knocks (for all Postmen give two smart thumps 
which are known here and elsewhere as the "Postman's 
knock ") brought me it and the newspaper, and delivered 
me from a multitude of vague imaginations. Newspapers 
indeed had come the week before, and persuaded me 
that nothing material was wrong ; however, it was still 
the best that could happen to have it all confirmed in 
black-on-white. Tell James that in spite of his critical 
penetration, the Letter ^^ could go," and did go, and was 
welcomed as few are. 

Whatever you may think, it is not a "Ten minutes " 
matter with me, the filling of a frank that will carry an 
ounce of thin writing paper : it is a decided business^ 
which breaks the head of a Day for me ; which breakage, 
however, I am generally well disposed to execute. 

Do you also take a large, even a /^;/^-shaped sheet, a 
clear pointed pen, and in the smallest hand you can 
master, repay it me. By no means must I want 
199 



The Apostle Butterworth 

Dumfriesshire news, especially news about my Mother. 
The tax-loaded Post Office is still the most invaluable of 
Establishments ; and the ancient men, that invented 
ivriting, and made the voice of man triumphant over 
Space and Time, were deservedly accounted next to gods. 
I would have you, in particular, do your endeavour by 
assiduous practice (there is no other method) to perfect 
yourself in that divine art, the uses of which no man 
can calculate ; in time, as I predict, you will acquire 
very considerable excellence. 

As for good composition, it is mainly the result of 
good thinking, and improves with that, if careful 
'■ observation as you read attends it : the Penmanship is 
a secondary matter, and has only three points of 
perfection, or at most four, that I know of; in all of 
which one may advance indefinitely by exertion of one's 
own: that it be straight across the paper, that it be distinct, 
that it be rapid, — to which, if you like, add that it be 
close, or jmich of it in a given space. " These are 
good advices " ? They are not mine, but the Apostle 
Butterworth's ! I did not design answering you so soon 
by a week or ten days, as I said in Alick's Letter; but 
there has come a sheet from Naples, which I was 
beginning to be very impatient for, and I would not keep 
it back an instant from my Mother, whose impatience 
probably is still greater. She has already got hint of it 
in the last Examiner, and also that it is coming by the 
fore-lock, and hope I shall not miss the day again, as I 
fear was done in the Catlinns case, after all my exertions : 
as for you, make up the Parcel again instantly for Jar- 
dine and Scotsbrig, or there will be no forgiveness for you. 

As you have doubtless seen or will see the copious 
despatches I have sent to Annandale about our House- 
hold Establishment, wherein nothing from the very 

200 



Vehicles and Faces 

watering-pan and marigold flowers upwards is forgotten, 
I need not dilate farther on that topic. We have at 
length all but got the last struggles of the upholsterer 
squadron handsomely conducted out of doors, with far 
less damage than might have been apprehended; and 
sit quietly in a Dwelling-place really much beyond what 
could have been anticipated; where, if Providence but 
grant us grace not to be wanting to ourselves, the rest 
may pass quite uncriticised. We have not yet ceased to 
admire the union of quietness and freshness of air, and 
the outlook into green trees (Plum trees, walnuts, even 
mulberries, they say), with the close neighbourhood of 
the noisiest Babylon that ever raged and fumed (with 
coal smoke) on the face of this Planet. I can alternate 
between the one and the other in half an hour ! The 
London streets themselves are quite a peculiar object, 
and I daresay of almost ijiexhaustible significance. 
There is such a torrent of vehicles and faces : the 
slow-rolling, all-defying waggon, like a mountain in 
motion, the dejected Hackney-Coach, that '^ has seen 
better days," but goes along as with a tough uncomplain- 
ing patience, the gay equipage with its light bounding 
air, 2indi flunkies of colour hanging behind it ; the distracted 
cab (a thing like a cradle set aslant on its foot-end, 
where you sit open in front but free from rain), which 
always some blackguard drives with the fury of Jehu ; 
the huge omnibus (a pointed Coru-Kist, of twenty feet 
long, set on four wheels : no, it cannot be t'we7ity feet!) 
which runs along all streets from all points of the 
compass, as a sixpenny or shilling stage-coach, towards 
" The Bank " (of England) ; Butchers' and Brewers' and 
Bakers' Drays : all these, with wheelbarrows, trucks 
(hurlies), dogcarts, and a nameless flood of other sina' 
trash, hold on unweariedly their ever-vexed chaotic way. 

201 



Philosopher at the Opera 

And then of foot-passengers ! From the King to the 
Beggar; all in haste, all with a look of care and 
endeavour; and as if there were really "Deevil a thing 
but one man oppressing another." To wander along 
and read all this : it is reading one of the strangest 
everlasting Newspaper Cohwins the eye ever opened on : a 
Newspaper Column of living Letters (as I often say), that 
was printed in eternity, and is here published only for a 
little while in time, and will soon be recalled — taken out 
of circulation again. 

For the rest, we live exceedingly happy here ; as yet 
visited by few, and happily by almost no7ie that is not 
worth being visited by. At any time, in half an hour, I 
can have company enough of the sort going ; and scarcely 
above once or twice in the week is my Day taken from me 
by any intrusion. I am getting rather stiffly to work 
again ; and once well at work, can defy the whole Powers 
of Darkness, and say in my heart (as Tom Ker the mason 
did to Denbie and " the Marquis " or some Military minion 
of his) : " Ye will go your length, gentlemen ; my name's 
Tom Ker." By and by, if all go right, you shall see some 
book of mine with my name (not of " Tom Ker ") on it, 
and the best I can do. Pray that it be honestly done, let 
its reception be what it will. 

Of " amusements," beyond mere strolling, I take little 
thought. By acquaintance with newspaper people (such 
as Hunt) I fancy we might procure free admission to the 
Theatres, even to the Opera, almost every night : but, alas ! 
what would it avail ? I actually went, one idle night 
before Jane came, to Covent Garden ; found it a very 
mystery of stupidity and abomination; and so tiresome 
that I came away long before the end, and declare that 
the dullest sermon I ever heard was cheery in com- 
parison. 

202 



Philosopher and the Fireworks 

The night before last, looking out from our (back) Bed- 
room window at midnight, I saw the many-coloured 
rockets rising from Vauxhall Gardens, and thought with 
myself: " Very well, gentlemen, if you have ' guinea admis- 
sion ' to spare for it ; only, thank Heaven, I am not within 
a measured mile of you ! " — There are a few good, even 
noble people here too ; there must be a few ; if there were 
not, the whole concern would take fire : of these I even 
know some, and hope to know more. 

But now, my dear Sister, you have enough of London ; 
let me turn a little northward. I am much obliged by 
your description of Mother's settlement ; I can form a 
very tolerable notion of her arrangement in the two well- 
known rooms, and find the most natural that could be 
made. I hope, however, the Clock is now got safely 
hoisted up : surely, among so many stout hands, any 
task of that kind could not be difficult. However, where 
a Honeymoon is in progress one must thole^ one must 
thole. I also like very well to hear of your Jamie's boarding 
with our Mother, while he is at his work in the neigh- 
bourhood. I follow him across the fresh fields, daily in 
the morning, to the Ha, and heartily wish him a useful 
day. There is no other way of making a pleasajit day, 
that I could ever hear of. That he finds employment in 
his honest vocation is a great blessing, for which I trust 
you are thankful. 

Tell him \o follow his vocation honestly, not as a man- 
pleaser, or one working for the eye of man only, but as one 
forever under another Eye that never slumbers or sleeps, 
that sees in secret, and will reward openly. I hope and 
believe that this is his course, that he will persevere in it, 
let the wind of accident blow fair or foul; and so I can 
prophesy all manner of good for him. 

. . . There is much louder thunder to-day, and a 
203 



Advice to Prudence 

copious deluge of rain ; of all which we hope to reap the 
benefit to-morrow, for the air was growing foully un- 
comfortable, and oppressive too ; a sour east-wind, amid 
the sultriest brick kiln heat, with dusts enough and 
vapours as we have them in these streets and ways. A 
day's rain washes everything above ground and beneath 
it. Next morning we can " sniff the caller air," for it is 
there to snufF. . . . This is a far larger Letter than yours. 
Dame ; and deserves two in return for it ; think of that, 
and of what you are to do in consequence. . . . That 
Scotsbrig residence, I think with you and have always 
thought, can hardly be permanently comfortable for our 
Mother ; if it serv-e well for one year, that is all I hope of 
it : then other outlooks may have opened. In the mean- 
while. Toleration, " the Act of Mutual Toleration!" One 
can live without it nowhere on this earth's surface. 
— Remember me kindly to dear little Prudence. Tell 
her to mind her seam, and be considerate and wise, and 
grow daily wiser ; and it will go better and better with 
her. — Jane, whose health seems better than of old and still 
improving, sends her love to all of you. . . . And so fare- 
well, my dear Sister. Be true and loving ! — Ever your 
affectionate T. Carlyle 

III 

(To Dr. Carlyle, Naples) 

5 Great Cheyne Row, Chelsea 

London August 15, 1834 

MY DEAR BROTHER, — How long it is since I 
wrote last is not accurately in my memory; I 
know only that your last Let er has been in my hands, and 
indeed in my Mother's (to whom it was fortunately sent) 
above a fortnight ; and that 7ny last, which was all that 
204 



Tidings of Annandale 

remained due when you wrote, must be fairly digested 
by this time ; so that now, on a day of leisure, another 
may be fitly despatched. The news of your welfare, 
your Seeleii-bckenntnisse,, your trustful brotherly affection : 
all this is ever one of the most solacing items of my lot. 
To address you in return, and impart my satisfaction and 
anxieties, with the assurance of having them heartily 
sympathised in, is also one of my agreeablest employ- 
ments. Would you were here again ! But May is 
coming, and with it flowers. By God's blessing you 
will be restored to us ; not to wander, we will hope, 
any more. 

There came a Letter from Alick very shortly after mine 
to you was sent away. All is in the usual way in Annan- 
dale ; for we have heard again only yesterday from Mrs. 
Welsh, who had seen Jean and Jenny at Dumfries : nay 
this moment since I begun to write, the Dumfries news- 
paper arrives with the mail of safety on it. Alick repre- 
sents our mother as moving about a good deal on Harry, 
and keeping her health very tolerably : she does not seem 
altogether hefted yet, he says, at Scotsbrig : however, the 
new Daughter-in-law seems to be a reasonable young 
woman, well disposed to do the best for all parties there ; 
till a new Whitsunday at least there can nothing go 
very far wrong among them. Jamie and she, it would 
appear, are still fond as turtle-doves and prolonging 
their Honeymoon. ... As for Alick himself, he writes 
in the middle of a wet abundant hay-harvest, and dates 
on the successive Sundays ; he has signified by let- 
ter to his Cattlins Landlord that unless they abate 
him £20 of the rent, he cannot keep the Farm longer 
than Whitsunday, and so waits, in a kind of con- 
fusing uncertainty, the slow issue ; forecasting rather that 
he will go. 

205 



Longing for a Hill 

I am sorry for Alick : he has a heavy burden to 
bear, and toils at it rather impetuously than stead- 
fastly. There is much wisely-suppressed energy in him 
too ; but he feels, in general, that he is not in his 
sphere; and has internally only an artificial kind of 
composure. . . . 

As for myself, I go on here almost without adventure 
of any kind. All of us have tolerable health : Jane 
generally better than before; I certainly not worse, 
and run more in the ancient accustomed fashion. 
I am diligent with the shower bath ; my pilgrimages 
to the Museum and my other Town-errands keep me in 
walking enough ; once or twice weekly, on an evening, 
Jane and I stroll out along the " Bank of the River," or 
about " The College," and see white-shirted Cockneys in 
their green canoes, or old Pensioners pensively smoking 
tobacco. 

I long much for a hill, but unhappily there is no such 
thing; only knolls, and these with difficulty, are attain- 
able. 

The London street tumult has become a kind of 
marching music to me. I walk along, following my own 
meditations, without thinking of it. Company comes 
in desirable quantity, not deficient, not excessive, and 
there is talk enough from time to time. I myself, 
however, when I consider it, find the whole all too thin, 
unnutritive, unavailing, and that I am alo7ie still under 
the high vault. All London-born men without exception 
seem to me narrow-built, considerably perverted men, 
rather fractions of a man. Hunt, by nature a very 
clever man, is one instance; Mill, in quite another 
manner, is another. These and others continue to 
come about me, as with the cheering sound of temporary 
music, and are right welcome so: a higher co-operation 
206 



Unitarian Fox 

will perhaps somewhere else or sometime hence disclose 

itself. 

" There was a piper had a Cow, 
And he had nought to give her; 
He took his pipes and play'd a spring, 
And bade the Cow consider! " 

Allan Cunningham was here two nights ago, very 
friendly, very full of Nithsdale and pleasant Natiir- 
mensch. 

Mill gives me logical developments of /tow men act 
(chiefly in politics) ; Hunt tricksy devices, and crotchety 
whimsicalities on the same theme : w/iaf they act is a 
thing neither of them much sympathises in, much seems 
to know. 

I sometimes long greatly for Irving, for the old Irving 
of fifteen years ago : nay the poor actual gift-of-tongues 
Irving has seemed desirable to me ; and I have actually, 
as you shall hear, made my way through to him again. 

We dined with Mrs. (Platonica) Taylor and the 
Unitarian Fox (of the Repository, if you know it), one 
day: Mill also was of the party, and the Husband, an 
obtuse most joyous-natured man, the pink of Social 
hospitality. Fox is a little thick-set bushy-locked man 
of five-and-forty, with bright sympathetic, thoughtful 
eyes (the whole face reminded me of vEnas Rait's, com- 
pressed, and well buttressed out into broadness), with a 
tendency to pot-belly and snuffiness : from these hints 
you can construe him, the best Sociniaii Philosophist 
going, but not a whit more. 

I shall like well enough to meet the man again ; but 
I doubt he will not me. . . . We walked home however, 
even Jane did, all the way from the Regent's Park, 
and felt that we had done a duty. For we, from the 
Socinians, as I take it, wird Nichts. Here too let me 
207 



Mill's Enthusiasm 

wind up the Radical-Periodical Editorship, which your 
last letter naturally speculates on. Mill I seem to discern 
has given it to this same Fox (who has just quitted his 
Preachership, and will, like myself, be out of the world) : 
partly I should fancy by Mrs. Taylor's influence, partly 
as himself thinking him the safer man. Ebberiel I can 
already picture to myself the Radical Party Periodical, 
and even prophesy its destiny : with myself it had not 
been so; the only thing certain would have been 
difficulty, pain and contradiction ; which I should prob- 
ably have undertaken : which I am far from breaking 
my heart that I have missed. I may mention too that 
Mill is so taken with my Diainond Necklace^ he in a 
covert way offered the other night to print it at his own 
expense, if I would give it him, that he might have 
the pleasure and profit of reviewing it ! Mill likes me 
well ; and on his embarrassed face when Fox happened 
to be talked of, I read both that Editorship business, 
and also that Mill had known my want of it ; which 
latter was all that I desired to read. As you well say, 
disappointment on disappointment only simplifies one's 
course ; your possibilities only become diminished, your 
choice is rendered easier. In general I bate no jot 
of confidence in myself and in my cause. Nay it often 
seems to me as if the extremity of suffering, if such 
were appointed me, might bring out an extremity of 
energy as yet unknown to myself. God grant me faith ; 
cleanness and peaceableness of heart ! I make no other 
prayer. 

As to Literary work there is still no offer made that 
promises to bring in a penny ; though I foresee that 
probably such will come, and, as they often do, all in 
a rush. Mill will want if his Fox concern go on; nay 
poor Heraud was here the other day endeavouring to 
208 



Sartor's First Appearance 

bespeak me for a Periodical of his ; for even he is to 
have a dud of a Periodical. Cheeriest and emptiest of 
all the sons of men ! Yet in his emptiness, as in that 
of a dried bladder, he keeps triumphantly jingling his 
Coleridgean long-quavered metaphysical cherry-stones, 
and even "makes a kind of martial music" for himself 
thereby. I do not remember that I ever met a more 
ridiculous — harmless froth-lather of a creature in all my 
travels. He lets you tumble him hither and thither, 
and cut him in two as you like ; but in the cheer- 
fullest way joins again, and is brisk froth-lather as 
before. One should surely learn by him. — The Diamond 
Necklace, I should have told you, has been refused by 
Moxon : shall I let Mill print ? I do not know, and 
really hardly care. As to Moxon, I reckon that we are 
not all done with this^ but with all, and need not for 
the present come into contact again. . . . [Frazer] has 
finished Teufelsdrockh, paid me for it instantly (in all 
£%2, IS.) ; and got me 58 perfect copies (really readable 
pamphlets of 107 pages, and all made up without break), 
which I was yesterday despatching far and wide from 
his shop. Some twenty copies yet remain, which I am 
in no haste to dispose of. . . . The Book is worth little, 
now that I see it ; yet not worth nothing, and will 
perhaps amuse you. I rejoice heartily in having done 

with it . My grand task, as you already know, is the 

French Revolution \ which, alas, perplexes me much. 
More Books on it, I find, are but a repetition of those 
before read; I learn nothing or almost nothing fi.irther 
by Books : yet I am as far as possible from under- 
standing it. 

Bedenklichkeiten of all kinds environ me. To be trne 
or not to be true ? There is the risk. And then, to be 
popular or not to be popular ? that too is a question 
p 209 



Chelsea Economy 

that plays most complexly into the other. We shall see, 
we shall try: Par ma tcte seidel — Before quitting this 
of Literature, I must tell you, among numberless dis- 
couragements, often most encouraging messages I have 
had. The first is from an unknown Irishman from Cork, 
or rather in Cork:i did I tell you of him before? The 
second is from that American Craigenputtock friend of 
ours ^ from whom there came a letter and Books lately. 
Both the two, in the most authentic and credible though 
exaggerated manner, cry out Evye ! for which I am 
heartily obliged to them. It is in regard to Teiifelsdrockh, 
and they both make their objections too. The day of 
small things ! For which, however, one cannot but be 
thankful. And so enough of my endeavourings and my 
cares and little pleasures. My good Jack has now as clear 
a view of [us] all as in a single sheet he could expect. 
We may say in the words of the Sansculotte Deputy writing 
to the Convention of the progress of right principles : 
Tout va Men ia\ LE PAIN MANQUE! Jane and I often 
repeat this with laughter. But in truth we live very 
cheap here (perhaps not above ;i^5o a year dearer than 
at Puttock), and so can hold out a long while independent 
of chance. Utter poverty itself (if I hold fast by the 
faith) has no terrors for me, should it ever come. 

I told you I had seen Irving. It was but yester- 
day, in Newman Street, after four prior ineffectual 
attempts. 

William Hamilton, who with his wife was here on 
Saturday, told me Irving had grown worse again, and 
Mrs. Irving had been extremely ill : he too seemed to 
think my Cards had been withheld. Much grieved with 
this news I called once more on Monday : a new failure. 
Yesterday I went again with unsuppressible indignation 
1 Father O'Shea. 2 Emerson. 

2IO 



Apostolic Sufferings 

mixed with my pity. After some shying I was admitted ! 
Poor Irving ! he lay there on a sofa, begged my pardon 
for not rising; his wife, who also did not and probably 
could not well rise, sat at his feet, and watched all the 
time I was there, miserable, haggard. . . . Irving once 
lovingly ordered her away: but she lovingly excused 
herself and sat still. He complains of biliousness ; of a 
pain at his right short-rib ; has a short thick cough which 
comes on at the slightest irritation. Poor fellow! I 
brought a short gleam, of old Scottish laughter into his 
face, into his voice, and that too set him coughing. He 
said it was the Lord's will ; looked weak, dispirited, partly 
embarrassed. He continues toiling daily, though the Doc- 
tor (Darling) says, rest only can cure him. 

Is it not mournful ; hyper-tragical ? There are moments 
when I determine on surging in upon all Tongue-work 
and Martindoms and accursed choking Cobwebberies, and 
snatching away my old best Friend, to save him from 
Death and the Grave ! It seems too likely he will die 
there. At lowest I will go again soon and often : I cannot 
think of it with patience. 

. . . Mrs. Welsh was up at Craigenputtock ; it looks 
all very wild, and made her greet ^'- not that we were 
gone": she had escorted thither a certain Indian 
friend who has (through M' Diarmid) taken the shooting, 
with right to lodging, for ^lo a year. Old Nanny 
M 'Queen pays us other ^lo for the Park and right of 
living in the House, with charge of taking care of it, and 
admitting any decent " Gunner body " of that kind. Both 
sums I believe will be faithfully paid ; and old Nanny is 
said to be the carefullest of women. . . . Alas the paper 
is quite done. 

Attend me on the margins. 

I have not said a word about Italy; for indeed, my 
2U 



Thorwaldsen 

dear Brother, except you there is nothing there that my 
thoughts turn upon ; and your position has in it the happy 
monotony (happy for your friends) of one at rest. Well 
do I understand those meditations of yours, those goings 
forth into the uttermost shores of being, those soundings 
into dim depths. Indulge not too much in them. For 
the rest, rejoice always that you have found footing ; 
prepare yourself not only to stand on it, but to build on 
it. I wish you had some more decisive occupation : but 
such is not appointed yet for a time. Meanwhile you 
are not idle, you are active as the scene allows ; many 
future years, I trust, will be the better for this leisure. 
Have you any company ? Tell me whom. Give me 
descriptions of them, and " how^ they ack P the vaarioics 
pleacesy Do you know Thorwaldsen at Rome per- 
sonally ? 

This Rennie seems to be intimate with him, and to 
love him well. He has cut a head of him, and has it 
here : the head of a man of energy and sensibility, with 
a nose of most honest simplicity. Go and see him, and 
try to get speech of him : a man of genius is always 
the best vi^orth conferring with. . . . Jane, who is not 
very well this particular day, sends you her sisterly love. 
She takes well with Chelsea, and seems to be cheerfuller 
than she was wont. 

And so, my dear Brother, here must I end. Gehab 
dich Tvohl ; leb'' heiter ; lieb'' mich. May all good things 
be with you. — I must to Charing Cross where the Post 
is still open. Felicissiina notte ! — Ever your faithful 
Brother, T. C. 



212 



Rogers and Buonaparte 
Byron is interested in Byron <:> -^^ ^'Cy ^Qy 

(To Thomas Moore) 



September 5, 18 13 

YOU need not tie yourself down to a day with 
Toderini, but send him at your leisure, having 
anatomised him into such annotations as you want ; 
I do not believe that he has ever undergone that process 
before, which is the best reason for not sparing him now, 

Rogers has returned to town, but not yet recovered of 
the Quarterly. What fellows these reviewers are ! " these 
bugs do fear us all." They made you fight, and me 
(the milkiest of men) a satirist, and will end by making 
Rogers madder than Ajax. I have been reading Mefnory 
again, the other day, and Hope together, and retain all 
my preference of the former. His elegance is really 
wonderful — there is no such thing as a vulgar line in his 
book. 

What say you to Buonaparte? Remember, I back 
him against the field, barring catalepsy and the elements. 
Nay, I almost wdsh him success against all countries 
but this, — were it only to choke the Morning Post or 
his undutiful father-in-law with that rebellious bastard of 
Scandinavian adoption, Bernadotte. Rogers wants me to 
go with him on a crusade to the Lakes, and to besiege 
you on our way. This last is a great temptation, but 
I fear it will not be in my power, unless you would go 
on with one of us somewhere — no matter where. It is 
too late for Matlock, but we might hit upon some scheme, 
high life, or low — the last would be much the best for 
amusement. I am so sick of the other, that I quite sigh 
for a cider-cellar, or a cruise in a smugglers' sloop. 
213 



His Lordship at Hastings 

You cannot wish more than I do that the fates were 
a little more accommodating to our parallel lives, which 
prolong ad infinitum^ without coming a jot nearer. I 
almost wish I were married, too — which is saying much 
— all my friends, seniors and juniors, are in for it, and 
ask me to be godfather, — the only species of parentage 
which, I beUeve, will ever come to my share in a lawful 
way ; and, in an unlawful one, by the blessing of Lucina, 
we can never be certain, — though the parish may. I 
suppose I shall hear from you to-morrow ; if not, this 
goes as it is, but I leave room for a P.S., in case anything 
requires an answer. — Ever, etc. 

II 

Hastings, August 3, 18 14 

BY the time this reaches your dwelling, I shall (God 
wot) be in town again probably. I have been here 
renewing my acquaintance with my old friend Ocean ; 
and I find his bosom as pleasant a pillow for an hour in 
the morning as his daughters to Paphos could be in the 
twilight. I have been swimming and eating turbot, 
smuggling neat brandies and silk handkerchiefs, — and 
listening to my friend Hodgson's raptures about a pretty 
wife-elect of his, — and walking on cliffs and tumbling 
down hills, and making the most of the dolce far niente, 
for the last fortnight. I met a son of Lord Erskine's, who 
says he has been married a year, and is the " happiest of 
men"; and I have met the aforesaid H., who is also the 
" happiest of men" ; so, it is worth while being here, if 
only to witness the superlative felicity of these foxes, who 
have cut off their tails, and would persuade the rest to 
part with their brushes to keep them in countenance. 
It rejoiceth me that you like Lara. Jeffrey is out 
214 



The Shepherd's Curse 

with his 45th number, which I suppose you have got. 
He is only too kind to me, in my share of it, and I 
begin to fancy myself a golden pheasant, upon the 
strength of the plumage wherewith he hath bedecked 
me. But then, siirgit amari, etc. — the gentlemen of 
the Champioti, and Perry, have got hold (I know not 
how) of the condolatory address to Lady Jersey on the 
picture-abduction by our Regent, and have published 
them — with my name, too, smack — without ever asking 
leave, or inquiring whether or no! Damn their impudence, 
and damn every thing. It has put me out of patience, 
and so, I shall say no more about it. 

You shall have La?'a and Jacque (both with some 
additions) when out ; but I am still demurring and 
delaying, and in a fuss, and so is Rogers in his way. 

Newstead is to be mine again. Claughton forfeits 
twenty-five thousand pounds ; but that don't prevent me 
from being very prettily ruined. I mean to bury myself 
there — and let my beard grow — and hate you all. 

Oh ! I have had the most amusing letter from Hogg, 
the Ettrick minstrel and shepherd. He wants me to 
recommend him to Murray ; and, speaking of his present 
bookseller, whose "bills" are never "lifted," he adds, 
totidem verbis, " God damn him and them both." I 
laughed, and so would you too, at the way in which this 
execration is introduced. 

The said Hogg is a strange being, but of great, though 
uncouth, powers. I think very highly of him, as a poet ; 
but he, and half of these Scotch and Lake troubadours, 
are spoilt by living in little circles and petty societies. 
London and the world is the only place to take the 
conceit out of a man — in the milling phrase. Scott, he 
says, is gone to the Orkneys in a gale of wind; — during 
which wind, he affirms, the said Scott, he is sure, is 
215 



A Glimpse of " Mr. Cypress ** 

not at his ease, — to say the least of "it." Lord, Lord, 
if these home-keeping mushets had crossed your Atlantic 
or my Mediterranean, and tasted a little open boating 
in a white squall — or a gale in " the Gut " — or the " Bay 
of Biscay," with no gale at all — how it would enliven and 
introduce them to a few of the sensations — to say nothing 
of an illicit amour or two upon shore, in the way of essay 
upon the Passions, beginning with simple adultery, and 
compounding it as they went along. 

I have forwarded your letter to Murray, — by the way, 
you had addressed it to Miller. Pray write to me, 
and say what art thou doing ? " not pushed ! " — 
Oons ! how is this ? — these " flaws and starts " must be 
" authorised by your grandam " and are unbecoming 
of any other author. I was sorry to hear of your dis- 
crepancy with the * *s, or rather your abjuration of 
agreement. I don't want to be impertinent, or buffoon 
on a serious subject, and am therefore at a loss what to 
say. 

I hope nothing will induce you to abate from the 
proper price of your poem, as long as there is a prospect 
of getting it. For my own part, I have seriously and 
not whiningly (for that is not my way — at least, it used 
not to be), neither hopes, nor prospects, and scarcely 
even wishes. I am, in some respects, happy, but not in 
a manner that can or ought to last, — but enough of that. 
The worst of it is, I feel quite enervated and indifferent. 
I really do not know, if Jupiter were to offer me my 
choice of the contents of his benevolent cask, what I 
would pick out of it. If I was born, as the nurses say, 
with a "silver spoon in my mouth," it has stuck in my 
throat, and spoiled my palate, so that nothing put into 
it is swallowed with much relish, —unless it be cayenne. 

However, I have grievances enough to occupy me that 
216 



A Prophet's Boast 

way too ; but for fear of adding to yours by this pestilent 
long diatribe, I postpone the reading of them, sine die. 
Ever, dear M., yours, etc. 

P.S. — Don't forget my Godson. You could not have 
fixed on a fitter porter for his sins than me, being used 
to carry double without inconvenience. . . . 



William Blake utters a manifesto ^^^ <^ ^:^ 
(To Thomas Butts) 

Felpham, November 22, 1802 

DEAR SIR, — My brother tells me that he fears you 
are offended with me. I fear so too, because there 
appears some reason why you might be so; but when 
you have heard me out, you will not be so. 

I have now given two years to the intense study of 
those parts of the art which relate to light and shade and 
colour, and am convinced that either my understanding 
is incapable of comprehending the beauties of colouring, 
or the pictures which I painted for you are equal in 
every part of the art, and superior in one, to anything 
that has been done since the age of Raphael. 

All Sir J. Reynolds' Discourses to the Royal Academy 
will show that the Venetian finesse in art can never 
be united with the majesty of colouring necessary to 
historical beauty ; and in a letter to the Rev. Mr. Gilpin, 
author of a work on picturesque scenery, he says thus : 

'• It may be worth consideration whether the epithet 
picturesque is not applicable to the excellences of the 
inferior schools rather than to the higher." 

"The works of Michael Angelo, Raphael, etc., appear 
217 



Confidence of Genius 

to me to have nothing of it; whereas Rubens and the 
Venetian painters may almost be said to have nothing 
else." 

" Perhaps picturesque is somewhat synonymous to the 
word taste, which we should think improperly applied to 
Homer or Milton, but very well to Prior or Pope. I 
suspect that the application of these words is to excel- 
lences of an inferior order, and which are incompatible 
with the grand style. You are certainly right in saying 
that variety of tints and forms is picturesque; but it 
must be remembered, on the other hand, that the reyerse 
of this {uniformity of colour and a long continuation of 
lines) produces grandeur." 

So says Sir Joshua, and so say I ; for I have now 
proved that the parts of the art which I neglected to 
display, in those little pictures and drawings which I had 
the pleasure and profit to do for you, are incompatible 
with the designs. 

There is nothing in the art which our painters do that 
I can confess myself ignorant of. I also know and 
understand, and can assuredly affirm, that the works I 
have done for you are equal to the Caracci or Raphael 
(and I am now some years older than Raphael was when 
he died). I say they are equal to Caracci or Raphael, 
or else I am blind, stupid, ignorant, and incapable, in 
two years' study, to understand those things which a 
boarding-school miss can comprehend in a fortnight. Be 
assured, my dear friend, that there is not one touch in 
those drawings and pictures but what came from my 
head and my heart in unison ; that I am proud of being 
their author, and grateful to you my employer ; and that 
I look upon you as the chief of my friends, whom I 
would endeavour to please, because you, among all men, 
have enabled me to produce these things. I would not 
218 



Still more Confidence 

send you a drawing or a picture till I had again re- 
considered my notions of art, and had put myself back 
as if I was a learner. 

I have proved that I am right, and shall now go on 
with the vigour I was, in my childhood, famous for. But 
I do not pretend to be perfect: yet, if my works have 
faults, Caracci's, Correggio's, and Raphael's have faults 
also. 

Let me observe that the yellow-leather flesh of old 
men, the ill-drawn and ugly old women, and, above all, 
the daubed black-and-yellow shadows that are found in 
most fine, ay, and the finest pictures, I altogether reject 
as ruinous to effect, though connoisseurs may think 
otherwise. 

Let me also notice that Camcci's pictures are not like 
Correggio's, nor Correggio's like Raphael's ; and, if neither 
of them was to be encouraged till he did like any of the 
others, he must die without encouragement. My pictures 
are unlike any of these painters, and I would have them 
to be so. I think the manner I adopt more perfect than 
any other. No doubt they thought the same of theirs. 
You will be tempted to think that, as I improve, the 
pictures, etc., that I did for you are not what I would 
now wish them to be. 

On this I beg to say that they are what I intended 
them, and that I know I never shall do better; for, if 
I were to do them over again, they would lose as much 
as they gained, because they were done in the heat of 
my spirits. 

But you will justly inquire why I have not written all 
this time to you. I answer I have been very unhappy, 
and could not think of troubling you about it, or any of 
my real friends. (I have written many letters to you 
which I burned and did not send.) And why I have not 
219 



"Among the Stars of God" 

before now finished the miniature I promised to Mrs. 
Butts, I answer I have not, till now, in any degree 
pleased myself, and now 1 must entreat you to excuse 
faults, for portrait-painting is the direct contrary to 
designing and historical painting, in every respect. 

If you have not nature before you lor every touch, 
you cannot paint portrait ; and if you have nature before 
you at all, you cannot paint history. It was Michael 
Angelo's opinion, and is mine. 

Pray give my wife's love with mine to Mrs. Butts. 
Assure her that it cannot be long before I have the 
pleasure of painting from you in person, and then she 
may expect a likeness. But now I have done all I could, 
and know she will forgive any failure in consideration 
of the endeavour. 

And now let me finish with assuring you that, though 
I have been very unhappy, I am so no longer. I am 
again emerged into the light of day ; I still and shall to 
eternity embrace Christianity, and adore Him who is the 
express image of God ; but I have travelled through 
perils and darkness not unlike a champion. I have 
conquered, and shall go on conquering. Nothing can 
withstand the fury of my course among the stars of God 
and in the abysses of the accuser. 

My enthusiasm is still what it was, only enlarged and 
confirmed. 

I now send two pictures, and hope you will approve 
of them. 

I have enclosed the account of money received and 
work done, which I ought long ago to have sent you. 
Pray forgive errors in omissions of this kind. I am 
incapable of many attentions which it is my duty to 
observe towards you, through multitude of employment, 
and through hope of soon seeing you again. I often 

220 



The Prophet's Barometer 

omit to inquire of you. but pray let me now hear how you 
do, and of the welfare of your family. 

Accept my sincere love and respect. — I remain yours 
sincerely, 

William Blake 

A piece of seaweed serves for barometer, and gets wet 
and dry as the weather gets so. 



Epistolary Senteniice <:^ <^ <^ <^ ^^:> 

MY chief philosophy has always been to do only 
what I deem pleasant. This is why I write to 
you. A. HoussAYE (to a lady) 

Opinions is a species of property that I am always desirous 
of sharing with my friends. 

Charles Lamb 



It is not always the giver who gives ; it is not always 
the receiver who receives. 

Malay Proverb 

It is a frail memory that remembers but present things. 

Ben Jonson 

When I began this letter I thought I had something to 
say : but I believe the truth was I had nothing to do. 

Edward FitzGerald 

Let us write oftener, and longer; and we shall not tempt 
the Fates by inchoating too long a hope of letter-paper. 

Ibid 

221 



Epistolary Sententia 

A VERY good companion, a charitable man, and a friend 
to those that were good, and had a face like any blessing. j 

Cervantes 

This, too, is in our memories for ever — an addition to 
our stock — a light for memory to turn to when it wishes 
a beam upon its face. 

Leigh Hunt 

A THANKFUL man owes a courtesie ever : the unthankful 
but when he needs it. 

Ben Jonson 

I live between the folds of a sheet of paper. 

Eugenie de Guerin 



22: 



X 

LITERATURE AND ART 

Haydon, Keats, and Shakespeare ^:iy ^^y ^::y 

March 1818 

MY DEAR KEATS, — I shall go mad! In a field 
at Stratford-upon-Avon, that belonged to Shake- 
speare, they have found a gold ring and seal, with the 
initials W. S. and a true lover's knot between. If this 
is not Shakespeare, who is it ? — A true lover's knot ! I 
saw an impression to-day, and am to have one as soon 
as possible : as sure as that you breathe, and that he 
was the first of beings, the seal belonged to him. 
O Lord ! B. R. Haydon 

Teignmouth, Sunday Mor?mig 

MY DEAR HAYDON, — In sooth I hope you are 
not too sanguine about that seal, in sooth I hope 
it is not Brummagem, in double sooth I hope it is his, 
and in triple sooth I hope I shall have an impression. 
Such a piece of intelligence came doubly welcome to me 
while in your own county and in your own hand, not but 
what I have blown up the said county for its watery 
qualifications. 

223 



"To Vex the World" 

The first six days I was here it did nothing but rain, 
and at that time having to write to a friend, I gave 
Devonshire a good blowing up ; it has been fine for 
almost three days, and I was coming round a bit, but 
to-day it rains again. 

With me the county is on its good behaviour. I have 
enjoyed the most delightful walks these three fine days, 
beautiful enough to make me content. 

The Dean gives Mr. Pope news of Gulliver and himself 

September 29, 1725 

I AM now returning to the noble scene of Dublin, into 
the grand 7nonde, for fear of burying my parts, to 
signalise myself among curates and vicars, and correct 
all corruptions crept in relating to the weight of bread 
and butter, through those dominions where I govern. 

I have employed my time (besides ditching) in finish- 
ing, correcting, amending, and transcribing my Travels 
{Gulliver's), in four parts complete, newly augmented 
and intended for the press when the world shall deserve 
them, or rather when a printer shall be found brave 
enough to venture his ears. I like the scheme of our 
meeting after distresses and dispersions. 

But the chief end I propose to myself in all my 
labours, is to vex the world, rather than divert it; and 
if I could compass that design without hurting my own 
person or fortune, I would be the most indefatigable 
writer you have ever seen without reading. I am ex- 
ceedingly pleased that you have done with translations. 
Lord Treasurer Oxford often lamented that a rascally 
world should lay you under a necessity of misemploying 
your genius for so long a time. But since you will now 
224 



Misanthrope but Friend 

be so much better employed, when you think of the 
world, give it one lash the more at my request. 

I have ever hated all nations, professions, and com- 
munities ; and all my love is towards individuals. 

For instance, I hate the tribe of lawyers; but I love 
Counsellor Such-a-one, and Judge Such-a-one. 

It is so with physicians. I will not speak of my own 
trade, soldiers, English, Scotch, French, and the rest. 

But principally I hate and detest that animal called 
man, although I heartily love John, Peter, Thomas, and 
so forth. This is the system upon w^hich I have governed 
myself many years (but do not tell), and so I shall go 
on until I have done with them. 

I have got materials toward a treatise proving the 
falsity of that definition animal 7'atio}iale, and to show 
it should be only rationis capax. Upon this great foun- 
dation of misanthropy (though not in Timon's manner) 
the whole building of my travels is erected ; and I never 
will have peace of mind till all honest men are of my 
opinion. 

By consequence you are to embrace it immediately, 
and procure that all who deserve my esteem may do 
so too. 

The matter is so clear, that it will admit of no dispute ; 
nay, I will hold a hundred pounds that you and I agree 
in the point. I did not know your Odyssey was finished, 
being yet in the country, which I shall leave in three 
days. 

I thank you kindly for the present, but shall like it 
three-fourths the less for the mixture you mention of 
other hands ; however, I am glad you saved yourself so 
much drudgery. I have been long told by Mr. Ford 
of your great achievements in building and planting, 
and especially of your subterranean passage to your 
Q 225 



Arbuthnot*s One Fault 

garden, whereby you turned a blunder into a beauty, 
which is a piece of Ars Poetica. I have almost done with 
Harridans, and shall soon become old enough to fall in 
love with girls of fourteen. 

The lady whom you describe to live at court, to be 
deaf and no party woman, I take to be mythology, but 
I know not how to morahse it. 

She cannot be Mercy, for Mercy is neither deaf nor 
lives at court ; Justice is blind, and perhaps deaf, but 
neither is she a court-lady; Fortune is both blind and 
deaf, and a court-lady ; but then she is a most damnable 
party woman, and will never make me easy as you 
promise. 

It must be riches, which answers all your description. 
I am glad she visits you ; but my voice is so weak, that 
I doubt she will never hear me. 

Mr. Lewis sent me an account of Dr. Arbuthnot's 
illness, which is a very sensible affliction to me, who, 
by living so long out of the world, have lost that hard- 
ness of heart contracted by years and general conversa- 
tion. I am daily losing friends, and neither seeking nor 
getting others. 

Oh, if the world had but a dozen of Arbuthnots in 
it, I would burn my Travels ! But, however, he is not 
without fault. 

There is a passage in Bede, highly commending the 
piety and learning of the Irish in that age, where, after 
abundance of praises, he overthrows them all, by lament- 
ing that, alas ! they kept Easter at a wrong time of the 
year. So our Doctor has every quality and virtue that 
can make a man amiable or useful; but, alas, he hath 
a sort of slouch in his walk ! I pray God protect^ him, 
for he is an excellent Christian, though not a Catholic. 
I hear nothing of my friend Gay ; but I find the court 
226 



Little Flams on Miss Carteret 

keeps him at hard meat. I advised him to come over 
here with a Lord-Lieutenant. Phillips writes little flams 
(as Lord Leicester called those sort of verses) on Miss 
Carteret. 

A Dublin blacksmith, a great poet, hath imitated his 
manner in a poem to the same Miss. 

Phillips is a complainer ; and on this occasion I told 
Lord Carteret, that complainers never succeeded at 
court, though railers do. 

Are you altogether a country gentleman, that I must 
address you out of London, to the hazard of your losing 
this precious letter, which I will now conclude, although 
so much paper is left ? I have an ill name and therefore 
shall not subscribe it ; but you will guess it comes from 
one who esteems and loves you about half as much as 
you deserve, I mean as much as he can. I am in 
great concern, at what I am just told is in some of the 
newspapers, that Lord Bolingbroke is much hurt by a 
fall in hunting. I am glad he has so much youth and 
vigour left (of which he hath not been thrifty) ; but I 
wonder he has no more discretion. 

Miss Edgeworth visits Sir Walter in Edinburgh ^:^ 

(To Mrs. Ruxton) 

Edinburgh, 32 Abercromby Place 
June 8, 1823 

YOU have had our history up to Kinneil House. Mr. 
and Miss Stewart accompanied us some miles 
on our road to show us the palace of Linlithgow — very 
interesting to see, but not to describe. The drive from 
Linlithgow to Edinburgh is nothing extraordinary, but 
the road approaching the city is grand, and the first 
227 



A Note from Sir Walter 

view of the Castle and " mine own romantic town " 
delighted my companions ; the day was fine and they 
were sitting outside on the barouche seat — a seat which 
you, my dear aunt, would not have envied them with all 
their fine prospects ; by this approach to Edinburgh there 
are no suburbs ; you drive at once through magnificent 
broad streets and fine squares — all the houses are of 
stone, darker than the Ardbraccain stone, and of a kind 
that is little injured by weather or time. Margaret 
Alison had taken lodgings for us in Abercromby Place — 
finely built, with hanging shrubbery garden, and the 
house as delightful as the situation. As soon as we had 
packed, and arranged our things the evening of our 
arrival, we walked, about ten minutes' distance from us, 
to our dear old friends the Alisons. We found them 
shawled and bonneted, just coming to see us. 

Mr. Alison and Sir Walter Scott had settled that we 
should drive the first day after our arrival with Mr. 
Alison, which was just what we wished ; but on our 
return home we found a note from Sir Walter: 

" Dear Miss Edgworth, — I have just received your 
kind note, just when I had persuaded myself it was most 
likely I should see you in person or hear of your arrival. 
Mr. Alison writes to me you are engaged to drive with 
him to-morrow, which puts Roslin out of the question 
for that day, as it might keep you laie. On Sunday I 
hope you will join our family party at five, and on Monday 
I have asked one or two of the northern lights on purpose 
to meet you. I should be engrossing at any time, but 
we shall be more disposed to be so just now, because 
on the 1 2th I am under the necessity of going to a 
diiTerent kingdom (only the kingdom of Fife) for a day 
or two. To-morrow, if it is quite agreeable, I will wait on 
you about twelve, and hope you will permit me to show 
you some of our improvements. — I am always most 
respectfully yours, Walter Scott 

" Edinburgh, Friday 

228 



First Sound of Walter Scott's Voice 

^^ P.S. — Our old family coach is licensed to carry j'/;f; 
so take no care on that score. I enclose Mr. Alison's 
note; truly sorry I could not accept the invitation it 
contains. 

'• P.S. — My wife insists I shall add that the Laird of 
Staffa promised to look in on us this evening at eight or 
nine, for the purpose of letting us hear one of his clans- 
men sing some Highland boat songs and the like, and 
that if you will come, as the Irish should to the Scotch, 
without any ceremony, you will hear what is perhaps 
more curious than mellifluous. The man returns to the 
Isles to-morrow. There are no strangers with us ; no 
party ; none but all our own family and two old friends. 

-' Moreover, all our woman-kind have been calling it 
Gibb's hotel, so if you are not really tired and late, you 
have not even pride, the ladies' last defence, to oppose to 
this request. But, above all, do not fatigue yourself and 
the young ladies. 

" No dressing to be thought of." 

Ten o'clock struck as I read the note ; we were tired 
— we were not fit to be seen; but I thought it right to 
accept " Walter Scott's '' cordial invitation ; sent for a 
hackney coach, and just as we were, without dressing, 
went. As the coach stopped, we saw the hall lighted, and 
the moment the door opened, heard the joyous sounds of 
loud singing. Three servants — " The Miss Edgeworths '' 
sounded from hall to landing-place, and as I paused for a 
moment in the anteroom, I heard the first sound of 
Walter Scott's voice, '' The Miss Edgeworths corned 

The room was lighted by only one globe lamp. A 
circle were singing low and beating time. All stopped 
in an instant, and Walter Scott in the most cordial 
and courteous manner stepped forward to welcome us : 
^' Miss Edgevvorth, this is so kind of you !" 

My first impression ^was that he was neither so large, 
nor so heavy in appearance, as I had been led to expect 
by description, bust, and picture. He is more lame than 
229 



Highland Boat Songs 

I expected, but not unwieldy; his countenance, even by 
the uncertain light in which I first saw it, pleased me 
much, benevolent and full of genius, without the slightest 
effort at expression ; delightfully natural, as if he did not 
know he was Walter Scott or the Great Unknown of the 
north, as if he only thought of making others happy. 

After naming to us "Lady Scott, Staffa, my daughter 
Lockhart, Sophia, another daughter Anne, my son, my 
son-in-law Lockhart," just in the broken circle as they 
then stood, and showing me that only his family and his 
friends, Mr. Clarke and Mr. Sharpe, were present, he sat 
down for a minute beside me on a low sofa ; and on my 
saying, " Do not let us interrupt what was going on," he 
immediately rose and begged Staffa to bid his boatman 
strike up again. "Will you join in the circle with us?" 
He put the end of a silk handkerchief into my hand, and 
others into my sisters' ; they held these handkerchiefs all 
in their circle again, and the boatman began to roar out 
a Gaelic song, to which they all stamped in time and 
repeated the chorus, which, as far as I could hear, sounded 
like " at am Vaun ! at am Vaun I " frequently repeated 
with prodigious enthusiasm. In another I could make 
out no intelligible sound but " Bar ! bar ! bar ! " But the 
boatman's dark eyes were ready to start out of his head 
with rapture as he sang and stamped, and shook the 
handkerchief on each side, and the circle imitated. 

Lady Scott is so exactly what I had heard her de- 
scribed, that it seemed as if we had seen her before. She 
must have been very handsome. French dark large 
eyes, civil and good-natured. Supper at a round table, a 
family supper, with attention to us, with sufficient and no 
more. The impression left on my mind this night is that 
Walter Scott is one of the best bred men I ever saw, 
with all the exquisite politeness which he knows so well 
230 



With Scott for Cicerone 

how to describe, which is of no particular school or 
country, but which is of all countries, the politeness which 
arises from good and quick sense and jesting, which 
seems to know by instinct the characters of others, to see 
what will please, and put all his guests at their ease. As 
I sat beside him at supper, I could not believe he was a 
stranger, and forgot he was a great man. Mr. Lockhart 
is very handsome, quite unlike his picture in Peter's 
Letters. 

When we wakened in the morning, the whole scene of 
the preceding night seemed like a dream ; however, at 
twelve came the real Lady Scott; and we called for 
Scott at the Parliament House, who came out of the 
Courts with joyous face as if he had nothing on earth to 
do or to think of, but to show us Edinburgh. Seeming to 
enjoy it all as much as he could, he carried us to Parlia- 
ment House, Advocates' Library, Castle, and Holyrood 
House. His conversation all the time better than any- 
thing we could see, full of a propos anecdote, historic, 
serious or comic, just as occasion called for it, and all 
with a bonhomie and an ease that made us forget it was 
any trouble even to his lameness to mount flights of 
eternal stairs. Chantrey's statues of Lord Melville and 
President Blair are admirable. There is another by 
Roubillac of Duncan Forbes, which is excellent. Scott 
is enthusiastic about the beauties of Edinburgh, and 
well he may be, the most magnificent as well as the 
most romantic of cities. 

We dined with the dear good Alisons. Mr. Alison 
met me at the drawing-room door, took me in his arms 
and gave me a hearty hug, and I do not think he is much 
altered, only that his locks are silvered over. At the 
dinner were, besides his two sons and two daughters 
and Mr. Alison, Mr. and Mrs. Skene. In one of Scott's 
231 



" Really too barefaced '* 

introductions to Marmiofi you will find Mr. Skene, Mr. 
Hope, the Scotch Solicitor-General (it is curious the 
Solicitor-Generals of Scotland and Ireland should be 
Hope and Joy !), Mr. Brewster, and Lord Meadowbank, 
and Mrs. Maconachie his wife. Mr. Alison wanted me 
to sit beside everybody, and I wanted to sit by him, and 
this I accomplished ; on the other side was Mr. Hope, 
whose head and character you will find in Peter's 
Letters : he was very entertaining. Sophy sat beside 
Mr. Brewster, and had a great deal of conversation with 
him. 

Next day, Sunday, went to hear Mr. Alison ; his fine 
voice but little altered. To me he appears the best 
preacher I have ever heard. Dined at Scotf s ; only his 
own family, his friend Skene, his wife and daughter, and 
Sir Henry Stewart ; I sat beside Scott. I dare not 
attempt at this moment even to think of any of the 
anecdotes he told, the fragments of poetry he repeated, 
or the observations on national character he made, 
lest I should be tempted to write some of them for 
you, and should never end this letter, which must be 
ended some time or other. His strong affection for his 
early friends and his country gives a power and charm, 
to his conversation, which cannot be given by the polish . 
of the London world or by the habit of literary conversa- 
tion. Qiientin Durward was lying on the table. Mrs. 
Skene took it up and said, "This is really too bare- 
faced." Scott, when pointing to the hospital built by 
Heriot, said, " That was built by one Heriot, you know, 
the jeweller, in Charles the Second's time." 

There was an arch simplicity in his look, at which we 
could hardly forbear laughing. 



232 



Scott's Hospitable Castle 
Miss Edgeworth visits Sir Walter at Abbotsford ^^ 

(To Mr. Ruxton) 

Abbotsford, August 9, 1823 

I REMEMBER that you requested one of our party 
to write a few lines from Abbotsford. I think I 
mentioned to my aunt or Sophy the impression which 
I tirst experienced from Sir Walter Scott's great simplicity 
of manner, joined to his wonderful superiority of intellect. 
This impression has been strengthened by all I have seen 
of him since. In living with him in the country, I have 
particularly liked his behaviour towards his variety of 
guests, of all ranks, who came to his hospitable castle. 
Many of these are artists, painters, architects, mechanists, 
antiquarians, people who look up to him for patronage. 
None of them permitted to be hangers-on or parasites, 
and his manners are perfectly kind, courteous, yet such 
as to command respect ; and I never heard any one 
attempt to flatter him. I never saw an author less of an 
author in his habits. This I early observed, but have 
been the more struck with it the longer I have been 
with him. He has, indeed, such variety of occupations, 
that he has not time" to think of his own works ; how he 
has time to write them is a wonder. You would like 
him for his love of trees : a great part of his time out of 
doors is taken up in pruning his trees. I have within 
this hour heard a gentleman say to him, "^ You have had 
a great deal of experience in planting, Sir Walter; do 
you advise much thinning or not? 

" I should advise much thinning, but little at a time. 
If you thin much at a time, you let in the wind and hurt 
your trees." 

233 



A Prophet in his own Country 

I hope to show you a sketch of Abbotsford Sophy has 
made — better than my description. 

Besides the abbey of Melrose, we have seen many 
interesting places in this neighbourhood. 

To-day we have been a delightful drive through 
Ettrick Forest, and to the ruins of Newark — the hall 
of Newark, where the ladies bent their necks of snow 
to hear the Lay of the Last Minstrel. 

Though great part of Ettrick Forest was cut down 
years ago, yet much of it has grown up again to respect- 
able heights, and many, most beautiful, ash, oak, and 
alder trees remain. We had a happy walk by the river, 
and after refreshing ourselves with a luncheon in a 
summer-house, beautifully situated, we went to look at the 
ruins of Newark. It was a pity that this fine old building 
was let go to ruin, which it has done only within the last 
seventy years. The late Duke and Duchess of Buccleuch, 
to whom it belonged, had in their youth lived abroad, 
and were so ignorant about their own estate in Scotland, 
that when they first came to live here they supposed there 
were no trees, and no wood they thought could be had, 
and brought with them, among other things, a barrel 
full of skewers for the cook. 

It is very agreeable to observe how many friends of 
long-standing Scott has in the neighbourhood : they have 
been here, and we have been at their houses — very good 
houses, and the style of living excellent. Except one 
Prussian prince and one Swiss baron, no foreign visitors 
have been here ; indeed, the house is in such a state of 
painting and papering, and carpenters finishing new 
rooms and chasing the inhabitants out of the old, that 
it was impossible to have much company. 

Sir Walter's eldest son was here for some days — now 
gone back to Sandhurst. He is excessively shy, very 
234 



Farewell to Abbotsford 

handsome, not at all literary, but he has sense and 
honourable principles, and is very grateful to those who 
were kind to him in Ireland. 

His younger brother, Charles, who is now at home, 
has more easy manners, is more conversible, and has 
more of his father's literary taste. 

I am sorry to say we are to leave Abbotsford the day 
after to-morrow ; but the longer we stay the more sorry 
we shall feel to go. We had intended to have paid a 
visit to Lady Selkirk at St. Mary's Isle, but this would 
be a hundred miles out of our way, and I have no time 
for it, which I regret, as I liked very much the little I 
saw of Lady Selkirk in London. 



Dr. John Brown meets Thackeray ^^:^ ^> ^^> 

28 Rutland Street 
December 1851 or January 1852 

MY DEAR COVENTRY, — I wish you had been here 
for the last fortnight to have seen, heard, and known 
Thackeray, — a fellow after your own heart, — a strong- 
headed, sound-hearted, judicious fellow, who knew the 
things that differ, and prefers Pope to Longfellow, and Mrs. 
Barrett Browning and Milton to Mr. Festus, and Sir Roger 
de Coverley to Pickwick, and David Hume's Histo?y 
to Sheriff Alison's, and the verses by E. V. K. to his 
friend in town to anything he has seen for a long time ; 
and "the impassioned grape" to the whole work, 
prosaic and poetical, of Sir Bulwer Lytton. I have seen 
a great deal of him, and talked with him on all sorts of 
things, and next to yourself I know no man so much to my 
mind. He is much better and greater than his works. 
His lectures have been very well attended, and I hope 
23s 



Praise of Thackeray 

he will carry off ;^3oo. I wish he could have taken as 
much from Glasgow, but this may not be found possible. 
He was so curious about you after sending these verses, 
which he liked exceedingly. He is 6 feet 3 in height, 
with a broad kindly face and an immense skull. Do you 
remember Dr. Henderson of Galashiels? He is ludi- 
crously like him, — the same big head and broad face, — 
his voice is very like, and the same nicety in expression 
and in the cadences of the voice. He makes no figure in 
company, except as very good-humoured, and by saying 
now and then a quietly strong thing. I so much wish 
you had met him. He is as much bigger than Dickens as 
a three-decker of one hundred and twenty guns is bigger 
than a small steamer with one long-range swivel-gun. 
He has set everybody here a-reading Stella's Journal^ 
Gulliver, the Taller, Joseph Andrews, and Humphrey 
Clinker. He has a great turn for politics, right notions, 
and keen desires, and from his kind of head would make 
a good public man. He has much in him which cannot 
find issue in mere authorship. — Yours ever affection- 
ately, J. B. 



Thackeray praises Dickens to Mrs. Brookfield ^^^ 

Wednesday, 1849 

WHAT have I been doing since these many days? I 
hardly know. I have written such a stupid number 
oi Pendennis in consequence of not seeing you, that I shall 
be ruined if you are to stay away much longer . . . Has 
William written to you about our trip to Hampstead on 
Sunday? It was very pleasant. We went first to St. 
Mark's Church, where I always thought you went, but 
where the pew-opener had never heard of such a person 
236 



Praise of Dickens 

as Mrs. J. O. B. ; and having heard a jolly and perfectly 
stupid sermon, walked over Primrose Hill to the Crowes, 
where his reverence gave Mrs. Crowe half an hour's 
private talk, whilst I was talking under the blossoming 
apple tree about newspapers to Monsieur Crowe. Well, 
Mrs. Crowe was delighted with William and his manner 
of discoorsitig her; and indeed, though I say it that 
shouldn't, from what he said afterwards, and from what 
we have often talked over pipes in private, that is a pious 
and kind soul. I mean his, and calculated to soothe and 
comfort and appreciate and elevate, so to speak, out of 
despair, many a soul that your more tremendous, rigour- 
ous divines would leave on the wayside, where sin, that 
robber, had left them half-killed. I will have a Samari- 
tan parson when I fall among thieves. You, dear lady, 
may send for an ascetic if you like ; what is he to find 
wrong in you ? 

I have talked to my mother about her going to Paris 
with the children ; she is very much pleased at the notion, 
and it won't be very lonely to me. I shall be alone for 
some months, at any rate, — and vow and swear Til save 
money. . . . 

Have you read Dickens? O, it is charming! brave 
Dickens! It has some of the very prettiest touches — 
those inimitable Dickens touches which make such a 
great man of him ; and the reading of the book has done 
another author a great deal of good. In the first place, it 
pleases the other author to see that Dickens, who has long 
left off alluding to the O.A.'s works, has been copying the 
O.A., and greatly simplifying his style and overcoming the 
use of fine words. By this the public will be the gainer, 
and David Copperfield will be improved by taking a les- 
son from Vanity Fair. Secondly, it has put me upon my 
metal ; for ah! madame, all the metal was out of me, and 
237 



Spedding's Forehead 

I have been dreadfully and curiously cast down this 
month past. I say, secondly, it has put me on my metal, 
and made me feel I must do something ; that I have 
fame and name and family to support. . . . 



Edward FitzGerald in a houseful of children ^^^ 

Geldestone Hall, Beccles 
Sunday, May 22/42 

MY DEAR LAURENCE, — I read of the advertise- 
ments of sales and auctions, but don't envy you 
Londoners while I am here in the midst of green idleness, 
as Leigh Hunt might call it. 

What are pictures? I am all for pure spirit. You 
have, of course, read the account of Spedding's forehead 
landing in America. 

English sailors hail it in the Channel, mistaking it 
for Beachy Head. There is a Shakespeare Cliff, and a 
Spedding Cliff. 

Good old fellow! I hope he'll come back safe and 
sound, forehead and all. I sit writing this at my bed- 
room window, while the rain (long looked for) patters on 
the window. I prophesied it to-day, which is a great 
comfort. We have a housefull of the most delightful 
children : and if the rain would last, and the grass grow, 
all would be well. I think the rain will last. I shall 
prophesy so when I go down to our early dinner. For 
it is Sunday : and we dine children and all at one o'clock : 
and go to afternoon church, and a great tea at six — then 
a pipe (except for the young ladies) — a stroll — a bit of 
supper — and to bed. Wake in the morning at five — 
open the window and read Ecclesiasticus. A proverb 
says that " everything is fun in the country." My Con- 
238 



Blake nearing Seventy 

stable has been greatly admired, and is reckoned quite 
genuine by our great judge, Mr. Churchyard. Mr. C. 
paints himself: (not in body colours, as you waggishly 
insinuate) and nicely too. He understands Gainsborough, 
Constable, and old Crome. Have you ever seen pictures 
by the latter? some very fine. He was a Norwich man. 

William Blake reports progress ^;:> ^::> ^::n^ 

(To George Cumberland) 

April 12, 1827 

I HAVE been very near the gates of death, and have 
returned very weak, and an old man, feeble and 
tottering, but not in spirit and life, not in the real man, 
the imagination, which liveth for ever. In that I am 
stronger and stronger, as this foolish body decays. I 
thank you for the pains you have taken with poor Job. 
I know too well that the great majority of Englishmen 
are fond of the indefinite, which they measure by Newton's 
doctrine of the fluxions of an atom, a thing which 
does not exist. These are politicians, and think that 
republican art is inimical to their atom, for a line or a 
lineament is not formed by chance. A line is a line in 
its minutest subdivisions, straight or crooked. It is itself, 
not intermeasurable by anything else. Such is Job. But 
since the French Revolution Englishmen are all inter- 
measurable by one another : certainly a happy state of 
agreement, in which I for one do not agree. God keep 
you and me from the divinity of yes, and no too — the yea, 
nay, creeping Jesus — from supposing up and down to 
be the same thing, as all experimentalists must suppose. 

You are desirous, I know, to dispose of some of my 
works, but having none remaining of all I have printed, 
239 



Prophecies to Sell 

I cannot print more except at a great loss. I am now 
painting a set of the So/ig of Innocence and Experience 
for a friend at ten guineas. The last work I produced 
is a poem ^xv\\\\q.^ Jerusalem, the E7nanation of the Giant 
Albion, but find that to print it will cost my time the 
amount of twenty guineas. One I have finished, but it 
is not likely I shall find a customer for it. As you wish 
me to send you a list with the prices, they are as 
follows : 





I 


s. 


D. 


America 


6 


6 


O 


Europe 


6 


6 


O 


Visions, etc 


5 


S 


o 


Thel 


3 


3 


o 


Songs of Innocence and Experience 


lO 


10 


o 


Urizen 


6 


6 


o 



The little Card I will do as soon as possible! 



Edward FitzGerald describes his Sir Joshua ^:y '<^:> 

1869 

DEAR MRS. THOMPSON,— (I must get a new Pen 
for you — which doesn't promise to act as well as 
the old one — Try another). 

Dear Mrs. Thompson — Mistress of Trinity — (this does 
better) — I am both sorry, and glad, that you wrote me 
the Letter you have written to me : sorry, because I think 
it was an eiTort to you, disabled as you are ; and glad, I 
need not say why. 

I despatched Spedding's letter to your Master yester- 
day ; I daresay you have read it : for there was nothing 
extraordinary wicked in it. But, he to talk of my per- 
versity! . . . 

240 



" My Sir Joshua is a darling " 

My Sir Joshua is a darling. A pretty young Woman 
(" Girl " I won't call her) sitting with a turtle-dove 
in her lap, while its mate is supposed to be flying down 
to it from the window. I say " supposed," for Sir J., who 
didn't know much of the drawing of Birds, any more than 
of Men and Women, has made a thing like a stuiTed Bird 
clawing down Hke a Parrot. But then, the colour, the 
Dove-colour, subdued so as to carry off the richer tints of 
the dear Girl's dress; and she, too, pensive, not senti- 
mental : a Lady, as her Painter was a Gentleman. 

Faded as it is in the face (the Lake, which he would 
use, having partially flown), it is one of the most beautiful 
things of his I have seen : more varied in colour ; not 
the simple cream-white dress he was fond of, but with a 
light gold-threaded Scarf, a blue sash, a green chair, 
etc. . . . 

I was rather taken aback by the Master's having dis- 
covered my last — yes, and bond-fide my last — translation 
in the volume I sent to your Library. I thought it would 
slip in unobserved, and I should have given all my little 
contributions to my old College, without after-reckoning. 
Had I known you as the Wife of any but the " quondam " 
Greek Professor, I should very likely have sent it to you : 
since it was meant for those who might wish for some 
insight into a Play which I must think they can scarcely 
have been tempted into before by my previous Translation. 
It remains to be much better done ; but if Women of 
Sense and Taste, and Men of Sense and Taste (who don't 
know Greek) can read, and be interested in such a 
glimpse as I give them of the Original, they must be 
content, and not look the Horse too close in the mouth, 
till a better comes to hand. 

My Lugger has had (along with her neighbours) such 
a Season of Winds as no one remembers. We made 
K 241 



Praise of FitzGerald 

^450 in the North Sea ; and (just for fun) I did wish to 
realise ^5 in my Pocket. But my Captain would take it 
all to pay Bills. But if he makes another ^400 this 
Home Voyage! Oh, then we shall have money in our 
Pockets. I do wish this. For the anxiety about all these 
People's lives has been so much more to me than all the 
amusement I have got from the Business, that I think I 
will draw out of it if I can see my Captain sufficiently 
firm on his legs to carry it on alone. True, there will 
then be the same risk to him and his ten men, but they 
don't care ; only I sit here listening to the Winds in the 
Chimney and always thinking of the eleven hanging at my 
own fingers' ends. This letter is all desperately about me 
and mine, Translations and Ships. And now I am going 
to walk in my Garden : and feed ;;// Captain's Pony with 
white Carrots ; and in the Evening have my Lad come and 
read for an hour and a half (he stumbles at every third 
word, and gets dreadfully tired, and so do I ; but I 
renovate him with Cake and Sweet Wine, and I can't just 
now smoke the Pipe nor drink the Grog). " These are my 
Troubles, Mr. Wesley," but I am still the Master's and 
Mistress's loyal Servant, 

Edward FitzGerald ^ 

1 There is an 17^05 in FitzGerald's letters which is so exquisitely 
idyllic as to be almost heavenly. He takes you with him, exactly 
accommodating his pace to yours, walks through meadows so 
tranquil, and yet abounding in the most delicate surprises. And 
these surprises seem so familiar, just as if they had originated with 
yourself. What delicious blending ! What a perfect interweft of 
thought and diction ! What a sweet companion \—T.E. Brown to 
S. T. Irwin, 



242 



XI 

GUESTS AND THE PLAY 

Macaulay describes his first visit to Holland House 

London, //^^ i, 1831 

MY DEAR SISTER, — My last letter was a dull 
one. I mean this to be very amusing. My last 
was about Basinghall Street, attorneys, and bankrupts. 
But for this — take it dramatically in the German style. 

Fiiie 7norning. Scene, the great entrance of Holland 
House 

Enter Macaulay afid Two Footmen in livery 

First Footman, Sir, may I venture to demand your 

name ? 
Macaiday. Macaulay, and thereto I add M.P. 
And that addition, even in these proud halls, 
May well ensure the bearer some respect. 
Second Footman. And art thou come to breakfast with 

our Lord ? 
Macaulay. I am : for so his hospitable will, 
And hers — the peerless dame ye serve — hath bade. 
243 



Lord and Lady Holland 

First Footman. Ascend the stair, and thou above shalt 
find, 
On snow-white linen spread, the luscious meal. 

\_Exit Macaulay upstairs 

In plain English prose, I went this morning to break- 
fast at Holland House. The day was fine, and I arrived 
at twenty minutes after ten. After I had lounged a short 
time in the dining-room, I heard a gruff good-natured 
voice asking, "Where is Mr. Macaulay? Where have 
you put him ? '' and in his arm-chair Lord Holland was 
wheeled in. He took me round the apartments, he 
riding and I walking. He gave me the history of the 
most remarkable portraits in the library, where there is, 
by the bye, one of the few bad pieces of Lawrence that I 
have seen — a head of Charles James Fox, an ignominious 
failure. Lord Holland said that it was the worst ever 
painted of so eminent a man by so eminent an artist. 
There is a very fine head of Machiavelli, and another of 
Earl Grey, a very different sort of man. I observed a 
portrait of Lady Holland painted some thirty years ago. 
I could have cried to see the change. She must have 
been a most beautiful woman. She still looks, however, 
as if she had been handsome, and shows in one respect 
great taste and sense. She does not rouge at all ; and 
her costume is not youthful, so that she looks as well in 
the morning as in the evening. We came back to the 
dining-room. Our breakfast party consisted of my Lord 
and Lady, myself. Lord Russell, and Luttrell. You must 
have heard of Luttrell. I met him once at Rogers's ; 
and I have seen him, I think, in other places. He is a 
famous wit, — the most popular, I think, of all the pro- 
fessed wits, — a man who has Hved in the highest circles, 
a scholar, and no contemptible poet. He wrote a little 
244 



Lady Holland's Dream 

volume of verse entitled Advice to Julia, — not first rate, 
but neat, lively, piquant, and showing the most consum- 
mate knowledge of fashionable life. 

We breakfasted on very good coffee, and very good 
tea, and very good eggs, butter kept in the midst of ice, 
and hot rolls. Lady Holland told us her dreams ; how 
she had dreamed that a mad dog bit her foot, and how 
she set off to Brodie, and lost her way in St. Martin's 
Lane, and could not find him. She hoped, she said, the 
dream would not come true. I said that I had had a 
dream which admitted of no such hope ; for I had 
dreamed that I heard Pollock speak in the House of 
Commons, that the speech was very long, and that he 
was coughed down. This dream of mine diverted them 
much. 

After breakfast Lady Holland offered to conduct me 
to her own drawing-room, or, rather, commanded my 
attendance. A very beautiful room it is, opening on a 
terrace, and wainscotted with miniature paintings in- 
teresting from their merit, and interesting from their 
history. Among them I remarked a great many, — 
thirty I should think, — which even I, who am no great 
connoisseur, saw at once could come from no hand 
but Stothard's. They were all on subjects from Lord 
Byron's poems. " Yes," said she, " poor Lord Byron 
sent them to me a short time before the separation. I 
sent them back, and told him that, if he gave them 
away, he ought to give them to Lady Byron. But he 
said that he would not, and that, if I did not take them, 
the bailiffs would, and that they would be lost in the 
wreck." Her ladyship then honoured me so far as to 
conduct me through her dressing-room into the great 
family bedchamber, to show me a very fine picture by 
Reynolds, of Fox, when a boy, birds-nesting. She then 
245 



Napoleon and Rogers again 

consigned me to Luttrell, asking him to show me the 
grounds. 

Through the grounds we went, and very pretty I 
thought them. In the Dutch garden is a fine bronze 
bust of Napoleon, which Lord Holland put up in 1817, 
while Napoleon was a prisoner at St. Helena. The in- 
scription was selected by his lordship, and is remark- 
ably happy. It is from Homer's Odyssey. I will translate 
it, as well as I can extempore, into a measure which gives 
a better idea of Homer's manner than Pope's sing-song 
couplet. 

" For not, be sure, within the grave 
Is hid that prince, the wise, the brave; 
But in an islet's narrow bound, 
With the great Ocean roaring round, 
The captive of a foeman base 
He pines to view his native place." 

There is a seat near the spot which is called Rogers's 
seat. The poet loves, it seems, to sit there. A very ele- 
gant inscription by Lord Holland is placed over it : 

" Here Rogers sate ; and here for ever dwell 
With me those pleasures which he sang so well." 

Very neat and condensed, I think. Another inscription 
by Luttrell hangs there. Luttrell adjured me with mock 
pathos to spare his blushes ; but I am author enough to 
know what the blushes of authors mean. So I read the 
lines, and very pretty and polished they were, but too many 
to be remembered from one reading. 

Having gone round the grounds I took my leave, very 
much pleased with the place. Lord Holland is extremely 
kind. But that is of course; for he is kindness itself. 
246 



The H. H. Fright 



Her ladyship too, which is by no means of course,^ is all 
graciousness and civility. But, for all this, I would much 
rather be quietly walking with you ; and the great use of 
going to these fine places is to learn how happy it is possi- 
ble to be without them. Indeed, I care so little for them 
that I certainly should not have gone to-day, but that 1 
thought I should be able to find materials for a letter 
which you might like. — Farewell. 

T. B. Macaulay 



Charles Lamb among the Blue-Stockings "^^ ''^:^ 
(To S. T. Coleridge) 

Probably April 16 or 17, 1800 

I SEND you, in this parcel, my play, which I beg you 
to present in my name, with my respect and love, to 
Wordsworth and his sister. You blame us for giving your 
direction to Miss Wesley; the woman has been ten 
times after us about it, and we gave it her at last, under 
the idea that no further harm would ensue, but she would 
once write to you, and you would bite your lips and forget 

1 Lady Holland could be very terrifying. Sydney Smith has 
some good fun about it in a letter to Lady Ashburton in 1836 : — 

" Mr. and Mrs. dined at yesterday. I sat next to Mr. 

. His voice faltered and he looked pale : I did all I could to 

encourage him ; made him take quantities of sherry. Mrs. 

also looked very unhappy, and I had no doubt took the H. H. 
draught when she went home. You know, perhaps, that there is a 
particular draught which the London apothecaries give to persons 
who have been frightened at H. H. They will both tell you that 
they were not at all frightened, but don't believe them ; I have seen 
so much of the disorder, that I am never mistaken. However, don't 
let me make you uneasy ; it generally goes off after a day or two 
and rarely does any permanent injury to the constitution." 
247 



"That Mopsey, Miss Wesley" 

to answer it, and so it would end. You read us a dismal 
homily upon " Realities." We know, quite as well as you 
do, what are shadows and what are realities. You, for 
instance, when you are over your fourth or fifth jorum, 
chirping about old school occurrences, are the best of 
realities. Shadows are cold, thin things, that have no 
warmth or grasp in them. Miss Wesley and her friend, 
and a tribe of authoresses that come after you here daily, 
and, in defect of you, hive and cluster upon us, are the 
shadows. You encouraged that mopsey, Miss Wesley, 
to dance after you, in the hope of having her nonsense 
put into a nonsensical Anthology. We have pretty well 
shaken her off, by that simple expedient of referring her 
to you; but there are more burrs in the wind. I came 
home t'other day from business, hungry as a hunter, to 
dinner, with nothing, I am sure, of the author but hunger 
about me, and whom found I closeted with Mary but a 
friend of this Miss Wesley, one Miss Benje, or Benjey — 
I don't know how she spells her name. I just came in 
time enough, I believe, luckily to prevent them from 
exchanging vows of eternal friendship. It seems she is 
one of your authoresses, that you first foster, and then 
upbraid us with. But I forgive you. "The rogue has 
given me potions to make me love him." Well; go she 
would not, nor step a step over our threshold, till we had 
promised to come and drink tea with her next night. I 
had never seen her before, and could not tell who the 
devil it was that was so familiar. We went, however, not 
to be impolite. Her lodgings are up two pairs of stairs 
in East Street. Tea and coffee, and macaroons — a kind 
of cake I much love. We sat down. Presently Miss 
Benje broke the silence, by declaring herself quite of 
a different opinion from D'Israeli, who supposes the 
differences of human intellect to be the mere effect of 
248 



Lamb In the Lionesses' Den 

organisation. She begged to know my opinion. I 
attempted to carry it off with a pun upon organ ; but that 
went off very flat. She immediately conceived a very low 
opinion of my metaphysics ; and, turning round to Mary, 
put some question to her in French, — possibly having 
heard that neither Mary nor I understood French. The 
explanation that took place occasioned some embarrass- 
ment and much wondering. She then fell into an insult- 
ing conversation about the comparative genius and merits 
of all modern languages, and concluded with asserting 
that the Saxon was esteemed the purest dialect in Ger- 
many. From thence she passed into the subject of 
poetry ; where I, who had hitherto sat mute and a hearer 
only, humbly hoped I might now put in a word to some 
advantage, seeing that it was my own trade in a manner. 
But I was stopped by a round assertion, that no good 
poetry has appeared since Dr. Johnson's time. It seems 
the Doctor has suppressed many hopeful geniuses that 
way by the severity of his critical strictures in his Lives 
of the Poets. I here ventured to question the fact, and 
was beginning to appeal to natnes^ but I was assured " it 
was certainly the case." Then we discussed Miss More"'s 
book on education, which I had never read. It seems 
Dr. Gregory, another of Miss Benjey's friends, has found 
fault with one of Miss More's metaphors. Miss More 
has been at some pains to vindicate herself — in the 
opinion of Miss Benjey, not without success. It seems 
the Doctor is invariably against the use of broken or 
mixed metaphor, which he reprobates against the 
authority of Shakespeare himself. We next discussed 
the question, whether Pope was a poet ? I find Dr. 
Gregory is of opinion he was not, though Miss Seward 
does not at all concur with him in this. We then sat 
upon the comparative merits of the ten translations of 
249 



" A Canon at the Opera ! '* 

Pizarro, and Miss Benjey or Benje advised Mary to 
take two of them home ; she thought it might afford her 
some pleasure to compare them verbatim \ which we 
declined. It being now nine o'clock, wine and macaroons 
were again served round, and we parted, with a promise 
to go again next week, and meet the Miss Porters, who, 
it seems have heard much of Mr. Coleridge, and wish to 
meet its, because we are his friends. I have been pre- 
paring for the occasion. I crowd cotton in my ears. I 
read all the reviews and magazines of the past month 
against the dreadful meeting, and I hope by these means 
to cut a tolerable second-rate figure. 

The Rev. Sydney Smith declines two invitations ^n^ 

I 

(To Mrs. Meynell) 

Green Street, /?^«^, 1840 

THY servant is threescore-and-ten years old ; can he 
hear the sound of singing men and singing women ? 
A Canon at the Opera! Where have you lived? In what 
habitations of the heathen? I thank you, shuddering ; and 
am ever your unseducible friend, Sydney Smith 

II 

ENGAGED, my dear Miss Berry, up to the teeth on 
Saturday, or should be too happy. It gives me 
great comfort that you are recovered. I would not have 
survived you. To precipitate myself from the pulpit of 
Paul was the peculiar mode of distruction on which I 
had resolved. — Ever yours, Sydney Smith 

250 



" Once Is Enough " 

Cicero entertains Caesar ^^:> ^=^ ^=:^ ^^^ 
(To Atticus) 
THIS visitor so much dreaded! And yet one whose 



o 



visit I am not sorry to have received ; for it went off 
most pleasantly. 

When we came the evening before, on the i8th, to my 
neighbour Philippus, the house was so crowded with 
soldiers, that there was hardly a vacant room for Caesar 
to sup in. There were about two thousand of them, 
which made me feel no Httle uneasiness for the next 
day. But Barba Cussius set me at ease. He assigned 
me a guard ; made the rest encamp in the fields ; so that 
my house was kept clear. On the 19th, he staid with 
Philippus till I o'clock ; but admitted nobody. He was 
settling accounts, as I suppose, with Balbus. He then 
walked by the shore to my house. At two he took the 
bath. The verses on Mamuna were then read to him. 
His countenance was unchanged. He was rubbed, and 
anointed, and then he disposed himself at table, after 
taking an emetic ; and ate and drank in a very free and 
easy manner; for he was entertained hospitably and 
elegantly ; and our discourse resembled our repast in its 
relish and seasoning. 

Besides Caesar's table, his attendants were well pro- 
vided for in three other rooms; nor was there any 
deficiency in the provision made for his freedmen of 
lower quality, and his slaves ; but those of the better 
sort were elegantly entertained. Need I add more. I 
acted as man with man. Yet he was not the man to 
whom one would say at parting, " I pray let me have 
this visit repeated when you come this way again." 
Once is enough. Not a word passed between us on 
business, but much literary talk. To make short of the 
251 



" He crackled delicately '* 

matter, he was perfectly pleased and easy. He talked 
of spending one day at Puteoli ; another at Baiae. You 
have thus the account of the day's entertainment — an 
entertainment not agreeable, but still not troublesome 
to me. I shall stay here a little longer, and then to 
Tusculum. 

As he passed by Dolabella's villa, his troops marched 
close by the side of this house, on the right and left; 
which was done nowhere else. 

I had this from Nicias. 



Charles Lamb returns thanks for a little pig ^^ -^^^ 
(To Mr. and Mrs. J. D. Collier) 

Twelfth Day {Jamtary 6], 1823 

THE pig was above my feeble praise. It was a dear 
pigmy. 

There was some contention as to who should have the 
ears, but in spite of his obstinacy (deaf as these little 
creatures are to advice) I contrived to get at one of 
them. 

It came in boots too, which I took as a favour. 
Generally those petty toes, pretty toes! are missing. 
But I suppose he wore them, to look taller. 

He must have been the least of his race. His little 
foots would have gone into the silver slipper. I take him 
to have been Chinese, and a female. — 

If Evelyn could have seen him, he would never have 
farrowed two such prodigious volumes, seeing how much 
good can be contained in — how small a compass ! 

He crackled delicately. 

John Collier junr. has sent me a Poem which (without 
252 



"The Smack of that little Ear" 

the smallest bias from the aforesaid present, believe me) 
I pronounce sterling. 

I set about Evelyn, and finished the first volume in the 
course of a natural day. To-day I attack the second. — 
Parts are very interesting. — 

I left a blank at top of my letter, not being determined 
which to address it to, so Farmer and Farmer's wife will 
please to divide our thanks. May your granaries be full, 
and your rats empty, and your chickens plump, and 
your envious neighbours lean, and your labourers busy, 
and you as idle and as happy as the day is long ! 

Vive l'Agriculture ! 

Frank Field's marriage of course you have seen in the 
papers, and that his brother Barron is expected home. 

How do you make your pigs so little ? 
They are vastly engaging at that age. 

I was so myself. 
Now I am a disagreeable old hog — 

A middle-aged-gentleman-and-a-half. 

My faculties, thank God, are not much impaired. I have 
my sight, hearing, taste, pretty perfect ; and can read the 
Lord's Prayer in the common type, by the help of a 
candle, without making many mistakes. 

Believe me, while my faculties last, a proper appreciator 
of your many kindnesses in this way ; and that the last 
lingering relish of past flavours upon my dying memory 
will be the smack of that little Ear. It was the left ear, 
which is lucky. Many happy returns (not of the Pig) 
but of the New Year to both. — 

Mary for her share of the Pig and the memoirs desires 
to send the same — Dear Mr. C. and Mrs. C — Yours 
truly, C. Lamb 

253 



A Banquet indeed 
Pliny tells Septitius Clarus what he has missed ^^^ 

HOW happened it, my friend, that you did not 
keep your engagement the other night to sup 
with me ? But take notice, justice is to be had, and 
I expect you shall fully reimburse me the expense I 
was at to treat you ; which, let me tell you, was no small 
sum. I had prepared, you must know, a lettuce apiece, 
three snails, two eggs, and a barley cake, with some sweet 
wine and snow ; the snow most certainly I shall charge 
to your account, as a rarity that will not keep. Besides 
all these curious dishes, there were olives of Andalusia, 
gourds, shalots, and a hundred other dainties equally 
sumptuous. You should Ukewise have been entertained 
either with an interlude, the rehearsal of a poem, or 
a piece of music, as you liked best ; or (such was my 
liberality) with all three. But the luxurious delicacies and 
Spanish dancers of a certain — I know not who, were, it 
seems, more to your taste. However, I shall have my 
revenge of you, depend upon it ; — in what manner, shall 
be at present a secret. In good truth it was not kind 
thus to mortify your friend, — I had almost said your- 
self; — and, upon second thoughts, I do say so: for how 
agreeably should we have spent the evening, in laughing, 
trifling, and deep speculation ! You may sup, I confess, 
at many places more splendidly ; but you can nowhere 
be treated with more unconstrained cheerfulness, sim- 
plicity and freedom ; only make the experiment ; and if 
you do not ever afterwards prefer my table to any 
other, never favour me with your company again. 
Farewell. 



254 



A Piece at the Ambigu 

The Rev. Sydney Smith thanks Mr. Arthur Kinglake 
for a book, and enlarges on digestion ^^^ ^:> 

Combe Florey, Septe?nber 2,0, 1837 

DEAR SIR, — I am much obliged by the present of 
your brother's book. I am convinced digestion is 
the great secret of life; and that character, talents, 
virtues, and qualities are powerfully affected by beef, 
mutton, pie-crust, and rich soups. I have often thought 
I could feed or starve men into many virtues and vices, 
and affect them more powerfully with my instruments 
of cookery than Timotheus could do formerly with his 
lyre. — Ever yours very truly, Sydney Smith 



Charles Dickens at a French melodrama ^^> ^^ 

49 Champs Elysees, Paris 
Mofiday, January 7, 1856 

MY DEAR MARK [LEMON], — In a piece at the 
Ambigu, called the Rentree a Paris, a mere scene in 
honour of the return of the troops from the Crimea the other 
day, there is a novelty which I think it worth letting you 
know of, as it is easily available, either for a serious or a 
comic interest — the introduction of a supposed electric tele- 
graph. The scene is the railway terminus at Paris, with the 
electric telegraph office on the prompt side, and the clerks 
with their backs to the audience — much more real than if 
they were, as they infallibly would be, staring about the 
house — working the needles; and the little bell perpetu- 
ally ringing. There are assembled to greet the soldiers, 
all the easily and naturally imagined elements of interest 
— old veteran fathers, young children, agonised mothers, 
sisters and brothers, girl lovers — each impatient to know 
255 



" The Brave Electric Telegraph '' 

of his or her own object of soHcitude. Enter to* these a 
certain marquis, full of sympathy for all, who says : "' My 
friends, I am one of you. My brother has no commission 
yet. He is a common soldier. I wait for him as well as 
all brothers and sisters here wait for their brothers. Tell 
me whom you are expecting." Then they all tell him. 
Then he goes into the telegraph-office ; and sends a 
message down the line to know how long the troops will 
be. Bell rings. Answer handed out on slip of paper. 
"Delay on the line. Troops will not arrive for a quarter 
of an hour." General disappointment. " But we have this 
brave electric telegraph, my friends," says the marquis. 
" Give me your little messages, and Til send them off." 
General rush round the marquis. Exclamations : " How's 
Henri?" "My love to Georges;" "Has Guillaume for- 
gotten Elise? " " Is my son wounded? " " Is my brother 
promoted?" etc. etc. Marquis composes tumult. Sends 
message — such a regiment, such a company — " Elise's 
love to Georges." Little bell rings. Slip of paper 
handed out — "Georges in ten minutes will embrace his 
Elise. Sends her a thousand kisses." Marquis sends 
message — such a regiment, such a company — " Is my 
son wounded?" Little bell rings. Slip of paper handed 
out — " No. He has not yet upon him those marks of 
bravery in the glorious service of his country which his dear 
old father bears " (father being lamed and invalided) . Last 
of all the widowed mother. Marquis sends message — 
such a regiment, such a company — " Is my only son 
safe ? " Little bell rings. SHp of paper handed out — "He 
was first upon the heights of Alma." General cheer. Bell 
rings again, another slip of paper handed out. " He was 
made a sergeant at Inkermann." Another cheer. Bell 
rings again, another slip of paper handed out. " He was 
made colour-sergeant at Sebastopol." Another cheer. 
256 



Paris under Mud 

Bell rings again, another slip of paper handed out. "He 
was the first man who leaped with the French banner on 
the Malakhoff tower.'' Tremendous cheer. Bell rings 
again, another slip of paper handed out. " But he was 

struck down there by a musket-ball, and Troops 

have proceeded. Will arrive in half a minute after this.'' 
Mother abandons all hope ; general commiseration ; 
troops rush in, down a platform ; son only wounded, and 
embraces her. 

As I have said, and as you will see, this is available for 
any purpose. But done with equal distinction and rapidity, 
it is a tremendous effect, and got by the simplest means 
in the world. There is nothing in the piece, but it was 
impossible not to be moved and excited by the telegraph 
part of it. 

I have written to Beaucourt about taking that breezy 
house — a little improved — for the summer, and I hope 
you and yours will come there often and stay there long. 
My present idea, if nothing should arise to uproot me 
sooner, is to stay here until the middle of May, then 
plant the family at Boulogne, and come with Catherine 
and Georgy home for two or three weeks. 

We are up to our knees in mud here. Literally in 
vehement despair, I walked down the avenue outside the 
Barriere de T^^toile here yesterday, and went straight on 
among the trees. I came back with top-boots of mud on. 
Nothing will cleanse the streets. 

Numbers of men and women are for ever scooping and 
sweeping in them, and they are always one lake of yellow 
mud. All my trousers go to the tailor's every day, and 
are ravelled out at the heels every night. Washing is 
awful. 

Tell Mrs. Lemon, with my love, that I have bought 
her some Eau D'Or, in grateful remembrance of her 
s 257 



Gin and Fortitude 

knowing what it is, and crushing the tyrant of her existence 
by resolutely refusing to be put down when that monster 
would have silenced her. You may imagine the loves 
and messages that are now being poured in upon me by 
all of them, so I will give none of them ; though I am 
pretending to be very scrupulous about it, and am looking 
(I have no doubt) as if I were writing them down with 
the greatest care. — Ever affectionately. 



Thackeray describes to Mrs. Brookfield his adventures 
in a Paris theatre ^^ ^^:> ^^^ "^^ ^^ 

Paris, Tuesday, September ^, 1849 

PERHAPS [through] my intolerable meanness and 
blundering, you will not get any letter from me till 
to-morrow. On Sunday, the man who was to take the 
letter failed me ; yesterday I went with it in a cab to the 
Grande Poste, which is a mile off, and where you have to 
go to pay. The cab-horse was lame, and we arrived two 
minutes too late ; I put the letter into the unpaid letter- 
box ; I dismissed the poor old broken cab-horse, behind 
which it was agonising to sit ; in fine it was a failure. 

When I got to dinner at my aunt's, I found all was 
over. Mrs. H. died on Sunday night in her sleep, 
quite without pain, or any knowledge of the transition. 
I went and sat with her husband, an old fellow of 
seventy-two, and found him bearing his calamity in a 
very honest manly way. What do you think the old 
gentleman was doing? Well, he was drinking gin and 
water, and I had some too, telling his valet to make 
me some. Man thought this was a master stroke 
of diplomacy, and evidently thinks I have arrived to 
take possession as heir, but I know nothing about 
258 



Small Talk from Paris 

money matters as yet, and think that the old gentleman 
at least will have the enjoyment of my aunt's property 
during life. He told me some family secrets, in which 
persons of repute figure not honourably. Ah ! they shock 
me to think of. Pray, have you ever committed any 
roguery in money matters? Has William? Have I? 
I am more likely to do it than he, that honest man, not 
having his resolution or self-denial. But Fve not as 
yet, beyond the roguery of not saving perhaps, which 
is knavish too. I am very glad I came to see my 
dearest old aunt. She is such a kind tender creature, 
laws bless us, how fond she would be of you. I was 
going to begin about William and say " Do you re- 
member a friend of mine who came to dine at the 
Thermes ; and sang the song about the Mogul, and 
the blue bottle fly" but modesty forbade, and I was 
dumb. 

Since this was written in the afternoon, I suppose if 
there has been one virtuous man in Paris, it is madame's 
most obajient servant. I went to sit with Mr. H., and 
found him taking what he calls his tiffin in great 
comfort (tiffin is the meal which I have sometimes had 
the honour of sharing with you at one o'clock) and this 
transacted, and I didn't have any tiffin ; having con- 
sumed a good breakfast two hours previously — I went 
up a hundred stairs at least, to Miss B. H.'s airy apart- 
ment, and found her and her sister, and sat for an 
hour — she asked after you so warmly that I was quite 
pleased ; she said she had the highest respect for you. 
I was glad to find somebody who knew you; and all I 
can say is, if you fancy I like being here better than in 
London, you are in a pleasing error. 

Then I went to see a friend of my mother's, then to 
have a very good dinner at the Cafd de Paris, where 
259 



Panting for Dumas 

I had pot age a la pour p art ^ think of pour part soup. We 
had it merely for the sake of the name, and it was 
uncommonly good. Then back to old H. again, to 
bawl into his ears for an hour and a half; then to 
drink tea with my aunt — why, life has been a series of 
sacrifices to-day, and I must be written up in the book 
of good works. For I should have liked to go to the 
play, and follow my own devices best, but for that stern 
sentiment of duty, which fitfully comes over the most 
abandoned of men at times. 

All the time I was with Mr. H. in the morning, what 
do you think they were doing in the next room? It 
was like a novel. They were rapping at a coffin in the 
bedroom, but he was too deaf to hear, and seems too 
old to care very much. Ah! dear lady, I hope you 
are sleeping happily at this hour, and you and Mr. 
Williams, and another party who is nameless, shall 
have all the benefits of an old sinner's prayers. 

I suppose I was too virtuous on Tuesday, for yesterday 
I got back to my old selfish ways again, and did what I 
liked from morning till night. 

This self-indulgence though entire was not criminal; 
at first at least, but I shall come to the painful part of 
my memoirs presently. All the forenoon I read with 
intense delight, a novel called Le Vicointe de Bragelonne, 
a continuation of the famous Mousquetaires and just as 
interesting ; keeping me panting from volume to volume, 
and longing for more. 

This done, and after a walk and some visits, read 
more novels, David Copperfield to wit, in which there 
is a charming bit of insanity, and which I begin to 
believe is the very best thing the author has yet done. 
Then to the VarUtes Theatre, to see the play Chameleon, 
after which all Paris is running, a general satire upon 
260 



W. M. T. behind the Scenes 

the last 60 years. Everything is satirised, Louis xvi., 
the Convention, the Empire, the Restoration, etc. ; the 
barricades, at which these people were murdering each 
other only yesterday — ifs awful, immodest, surpasses 
my cynicism altogether. At the end of the piece they 
pretend to bring in the author, and a little child who 
can just speak, comes in and sings a satiric song, in a 
feeble, tender, infantine pipe, which seemed to me as 
impious as the whole of the rest of the piece. They 
don't care for anything, not religion, not bravery, not 
liberty, not great men, not modesty. Ah! madame, 
what a great moralist somebody is, and what moighty 
foine principles entoirely he has ! 

But now, with a blush upon my damask cheek, I 
come to the adventures of the day. You must know 
that I went to the play with an old comrade, Roger 
de Beauvoir, an ex-dandy and man of letters, who 
talked incessantly during the whole of dinner-time, as 
I remember, though I can't for the life of me recall 
what he said. Well, we went together to the green- 
room. I have never been in a French green-room 
before, and was not much excited, but when he proposed 
to take me to the loge of a beautiful actress with spark- 
ling eyes and the prettiest little retrousse nosey-posey in 
the world, I said to the regisseur of the theatre, "lead 
on ! " and we went through passages and upstairs to 
the loge^ which is not a box, but O! gracious goodness, 
a dressing room ! 

She had just taken off her rouge, her complexion was 
only a thousand times more brilliant, perhaps the 
peignoir of black satin which partially enveloped her 
perfect form, only served to heighten etc., which it 
could but partially do etc. Her lips are really as red 
as etc., and not covered with paint at all. Her voice 
261 



The Actresses Invitation 

is delicious. Her eyes O! they flashed etc. upon 
me, and I felt my etc. beating so that I could hardly 
speak. I pitched in, if you will permit me the phrase, 
two or three compliments however, very large and 
heavy, of the good only English sort, and O! 7non dieu 
she has asked me to go and see her. Shall I go, or 
shan't I.'' Shall I go this very day at 4 o'clock or 
shall I not? Well, I won't tell you, I will put up my 
letter before 4, and keep this piece of intelligence for 
the next packet. 

The funeral takes place to-morrow, and as I don't 
seem to do much work here, I shall be soon probably 
on the wing, but perhaps I will take a week's touring 
somewhere about France, Tours, and Nantes perhaps 
or elsewhere, or anywhere, I don't know, but I hope 
before I go to hear once more from you. I am happy 
indeed to hear how well you are. What a shame it 
was to assault my dear lady with my blue devils. 
Who could help looking to the day of failing powers, 
but if I last a few years, no doubt I can get a shelter 
somewhere against that certain adversity, and so I ought 
not to show you my glum face or my dismal feelings. 
That's the worst of habit and confidence. You are so 
kind to me that I like to tell you all, and to think that 
in good or ill fortune I have your sympathy. Here's an 
opportunity for sentiment, here's just a little bit of the 
page left to say something neat and pretty. 

Je les meprise les jolis mots, vous en ai-je jamais 
fait de ma vie? Je les laisse a Monsieur Bullar et 
ses pareils — j'en ferai pour Mademoiselle Page, pour 
la ravissante la semblante la fretillante Adele (c'est 
ainsi qu'elle se nomme) mais pour vous ? Allons — partons 
— il est quatre heures — fermons la lettre — disons adieu, 
I'amie et moi — vous m'ecrirez avant mon depart n'est- 
262 



Elia as Ariel 

ce-pas* 

vous plait, et gardy mwaw ung petty moreso der voter 

cure. W. M. T. 



Charles Lamb confesses to a night of it ^^^ ^:> 
(To Dr. Asbury) 

DEAR SIR, — It is an observation of a wise man 
that '' moderation is best in all things." I cannot 
agree with him " in liquor." There is a smoothness and 
oiliness in wine that makes it go down by a natural 
channel, which I am positive was made for that descend- 
ing. Else, why does not wine choke us ? could Nature 
have made that sloping lane, not to facilitate the down- 
going? She does nothing in vain. You know that 
better than I. You know how often she has helped 
you at a dead lift, and how much better entitled she 
is to a fee than yourself sometimes, when you carry off 
the credit. Still there is something due to manners 
and customs, and I should apologise to you and Mrs. 
Asbury for being absolutely carried home upon a 
man's shoulders thro' Silver Street, up Parson's Lane, 
by the Chapels (which might have taught me better), 
and then to be deposited like a dead log at Gaffar 
Westwood's, who it seems does not " insure " against 
intoxication. Not that the mode of conveyance is 
objectionable. On the contrary, it is more easy than 
a one-horse chaise. Ariel in the Tempest says 

" On a Bat's back do I fly, after sunset merrily." 

Now I take it that Ariel must sometimes have stayed 

out late of nights. Indeed, he pretends that "where 

263 



" And what is Reason ? " 

the bee sucks, there lurks he," as much as to say that 
his suction is as innocent as that little innocent (but 
damnably stinging when he is provok'd) winged creature. 
But I take it, that Ariel was fond of metheglin, of which 
the Bees are notorious Brewers. But then you will 
say : What a shocking sight to see a middle-aged 
gentleman -and-a-half riding upon a Gentleman's back 
up Parson's Lane at midnight! Exactly the time for 
that sort of conveyance, when nobody can see him, 
nobody but Heaven and his own conscience; now 
Heaven makes fools, and don't expect much from her 
own creation ; and as for conscience. She and I have 
long since come to a compromise. I have given up 
false modesty, and she allows me to abate a little of 
the true. I like to be liked, but I don't care about 
being respected. I don't respect myself. But, as I 
was saying, I thought he would have let me down 
just as we got to Lieutenant Barker's Coal-shed (or 
emporium), but by a cunning jerk I eased myself, and 
righted my posture. I protest, I thought myself in a 
palanquin, and never felt myself so grandly carried. 
It was a slave under me. There was I, all but my 
reason. And what is reason? and what is the loss of 
it? and how often in a day do we do without it, just 
as well? Reason is only counting, two and two makes 
four. And if on my passage home, I thought it made 
five, what matter? Two and two will just make four, 
as it always did, before I took the finishing glass that 
did my business. My sister has begged me to write 
an apology to Mrs. A. and you for disgracing your 
party ; now it does seem to me, that I rather honoured 
your party, for every one that was not drunk (and one 
or two of the ladies, I am sure, were not) must have 
been set off greatly in the contrast to me. I was the 
264 



The End is All 

scapegoat. The soberer they seemed. By the way, 
is magnesia good on these occasions ? ///' pol : 

med : sum : ante noct : in rub : can : . I am no 
licentiate, but know enough of simples to beg you to 
send me a draught after this model. But still you 
will say (or the men and maids at your house will say) 
that it is not a seemly sight for an old gentleman to 
go home pick-a-back. Well, may be it is not. But I 
never studied grace. I take it to be a mere superficial 
accomplishment. I regard more the internal acquisi- 
tions. The great object after supper is to get home, 
and whether that is obtained in a horizontal posture or 
perpendicular (as foolish men and apes affect for dignity), 
I think is little to the purpose. The end is always 
greater than the means. Here I am, able to compose 
a sensible rational apology, and what signifies how I 
got here? I have just sense enough to remember I was 
very happy last night, and to thank our kind host and 
hostess, and that's sense enough, I hope. 

Charles Lamb 

N.B. — What is good for a desperate head-ache? 
Why, patience, and a determination not to mind being 
miserable all day long. And that I have made my 
mind up to. So, here goes. It is better than not 
being alive at all, which I might have been, had your 
man toppled me down at Lieut. Barker's Coal-shed. 
My sister sends her sober compliments to Mrs. A. 
She is not much the worse. — Yours truly, 

C. Lamb 



265 



More Epistolary Sententiae 

REMEMBER my unalterable maxim, when we love, we 
have always something to say. 

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu 

The English do not generally love Letter writing : and 
very few of us like it the more as we get older. 

Edward FitzGerald 

7| P.M. — After a stroll in mine own Garden, under the 
moon — shoes kicked off — Slippers and Dressing Gown 
on — a Pinch of Snuff — and hey for a Letter — to my only 
London Correspondent! Ibid 

I HAVE a constancy in my nature that makes me always 
remember my old friends. 

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu 



A Conclusion -"^> ^^:> ^^> ^^:> ^::v ^:> 



(Pope to Lady Mary Wortley Montagu) 

YOUR will be done! but God send it may be the 
same with mine. 



266 



xir 

HUMORISTS AND ODDITIES 

The Ladies' Battle, in four letters ^^ ^^::^ ^Qy 

(Lady Seymour, the Queen of Beauty at the Eglinton 
Tournament and R. B. Sheridan's granddaughter, 
and Lady Shuckburgh exchange notes as to Mary 
Steadman) 



LADY SEYMOUR presents her compHments to Lady 
Shuckburgh, and would be obliged to her for the 
character of Mary Steadman, who states that she has 
lived twelve months, and still is, in Lady Shuckburgh 's 
establishment. Can Mary Steadman cook plain dishes 
well, and make bread, and is she honest, sober, willing, 
cleanly, and good tempered? Lady Seymour will also 
like to know the reason she leaves Lady Shuckburgh's 
house. Direct under care to Lord Seymour, Meriden 
Bradley, Wiltshire. 

II 

Lady Shuckburgh presents her compliments to Lady 
Seymour ; her ladyship's letter, dated October 28th, only 
267 



Seymore v. Shuckburgh 

reached her yesterday, November 3rd. Lady Shuck- 
burgh was unacquainted with the name of the kitchen- 
maid until mentioned by Lady Seymour, as it is her 
custom neither to apply for, nor give, characters to any 
of the under servants, this being always done by the 
housekeeper, Mrs. Couch, and this was well known to 
the young woman. Therefore Lady Shuckburgh is 
surprised at her referring any lady to her for a character. 
Lady Shuckburgh, keeping a professed cook, as well as 
a housekeeper, in her estabhshment, it is not very 
probable she herself should know anything of the abilities 
or merits of the under servants ; she is therefore unable 
to reply to Lady Seymour's note. Lady Shuckburgh 
cannot imagine Mary Steadman to be capable of 
cooking anything, except for the servants' hall table. 
November 4th. 

Ill 

Lady Seymour presents her compliments to Lady 
Shuckburgh, and begs she will order her housekeeper, 
Mrs. Couch, to send the girPs character, otherwise 
another young woman will be sought for elsewhere, as 
Lady Seymour's children cannot remain without their 
dinners because Lady Shuckburgh, keeping a professed 
cook and housekeeper, thinks a knowledge of the details 
of her estabhshment beneath her notice. Lady Seymour 
understands from Steadman that, in addition to her other 
talents, she was actually capable of cooking food for the 
little Shuckburghs to partake of when hungry. 

IV 

Madam, — Lady Shuckburgh has directed me to 
acquaint you that she declines answering your note, the 
268 



The Death of Amos Cottle 

vulgarity of which she thinks beneath her contempt, and 
although it may be characteristic of the Sheridans to be 
vulgar, coarse, and witty, it is not that of a lady, unless 
she chances to have been born in a garret and bred in a 
kitchen. Mary Steadman informs me that your ladyship 
does not keep either a cook or housekeeper, and that you 
only require a girl who can cook a muttton chop; if so, I 
apprehend that Mary Steadman, or any other scullion, 
will be found fully equal to the establishment of the Queen 
of Beauty. — I am, Madam, your Ladyship's etc. etc., 

Elizabeth Couch 



Charles Lamb softens the loss of a brother ^^::i^ ^^^ 
(To Coleridge) 

October 9, 1800 

I SUPPOSE you have heard of the death of Amos 
Cottle. 
I paid a solemn visit of condolence to his brother, 
accompanied by George Dyer, of burlesque memory. 
I went, trembling to see poor Cottle so immediately upon 
the event. 

He was in black ; and his younger brother was also in 
black. 

Everything wore an aspect suitable to the respect due 
to the freshly dead. For some time after our entrance, 
nobody spoke till George modestly put in a question, 
whether Alfred was likely to sell. 
( This was Lethe to Cottle, and his poor face, wet with 
tears, and his kind eye brightened up in a moment. 
Now I felt it was my cue to speak. 

I had to thank him for a present of a magnificent 
269 



Beslabberlng "Alfred'' 

copy, and had promised to send him my remarks, — the 
least thing I could do ; so I ventured to suggest, that I 
perceived a considerable improvement he had made in 
his first book since the state in which he first read it to 
me. Joseph until now had sat with his knees cowering 
in by the fire-place, and with great difficulty of body 
shifted the same round to the corner of a table where I 
was sitting, and first stationing one thigh over the other, 
which is his sedentary mood, and placidly fixing his 
benevolent face right against mine, waited my observa- 
tions. 

At that moment it came strongly into my mind, that 
I had got Uncle Toby before me, he looked so kind and 
good. 

I could not say an unkind thing of Alfred. So I set 
my memory to work to recollect what was the name of 
Alfred's Queen, and with some adroitness recalled the 
well-known sound to Cottle's ears of Alswitha. 

At that moment I could perceive that Cottle had 
forgot his brother was so lately become a blessed spirit. 
In the language of mathematicians, the author was as 9, 
the brother as i. 

I felt my cue, and strong pity working at the root I 
went to work, and beslabbered Alfred with most un- 
qualified praise, or only qualifying my praise by the 
occasional politic interposition of an exception taken 
against trivial faults, slips, and human imperfections, 
which, by removing the appearance of insincerity, did 
but in truth heighten the relish. 

Perhaps I might have spared that refinement, for 
Joseph was in a humour to hope and believe all things. 

What I said was beautifully supported, corroborated 
and confirmed by the stupidity of his brother on my left 
hand, and by George on my right, who has an utter 
270 



" All Men are Fine Geniuses " 

incapacity of comprehending that there can be anything 

bad in poetry. 

All poems are good poems to George ; all men are 

fine geniuses. 

So what with my actual memory, of which I made the 

most, and Cottle's own helping me out, for I had really 

forgotten a good deal of Alfred., I made shift to discuss 

the most essential parts entirely to the satisfaction of its 

author, who repeatedly declared that he loved nothing 

better than candid criticism. Was I a candid greyhound 

now for all this ? or did I do right ? I believe I did. 

The effect was luscious to my conscience. 

For all the rest of the evening Amos was no more 

heard of, till George revived the subject by inquiring 
, whether some account should not be drawn up by 
j the friends of the deceased to be inserted in Philips' 

Monthly Obituary ; adding, that Amos was estimable 

both for his head and heart, and would have made a fine 

poet if he had lived. 

To the expediency of this measure Cottle fully assented, 
' but could not help adding that he always thought that 
1 the qualities of his brother's heart exceeded those of his 

head. 

I believe his brother, when living, had formed precisely 

the same idea of him; and I apprehend the world will 

assent to both judgments. 
j I rather guess that the brothers were poetical rivals. 

I judged so when I saw them together. 
' Poor Cottle, I must leave him after his short dream to 

muse again upon his poor brother, for whom I am sure 
j in secret he will yet shed many a tear. Now send me 

in return some Greta News. C. L. 



271 



At Weston Underwood 

William Cowper receives a visitor, and becomes a 
prophet in his own country. ^^^ ^^ ^^ 

(To Lady Hesketh) 

The Lodge, November 27, 1787 

IT is the part of wisdom, my dearest cousin, to sit down 
contented under the demands of necessity, because 
they are such. 

I am sensible that you cannot in my uncle's present 
infirm state, and of which it is not possible to expect any 
considerable amendment, indulge either us, or yourself, 
with a journey to Weston. Yourself I say, both because 
I know it will give you pleasure to see Caicsidice ?m'^ once 
more, especially in the comfortable abode where you 
have placed him, and because after so long an imprison- 
ment in London, you who love the country and have a 
taste for it, would of course be glad to return to it. For 
my own part, to me it is ever new, and though I have 
now been an inhabitant of this village a twelvemonth, and 
have during the half of that time been at liberty to 
expatiate, and to make discoveries, I am daily finding 
out fresh scenes and walks, which you would never be 
satisfied with enjoying — some of them are unapproachable 
by you either on foot or in your carriage. Had you 
twenty toes (whereas I suppose you have but ten) you 
could not reach them ; and coach wheels have never 
been seen there since the flood. Before it indeed, (as 
Burnet says that the earth was than perfectly free from 
all inequalities in its surface,) they might have been seen 
there every day. We have other walks both upon hill- 
tops and in valleys beneath, some of which by the help 

1 The appellation which Sir Thomas Hesketh used to give him 
in jest, when he was of the Temple. — Southey's note. 
272 



The Bills of Mortality 

of your carriage, and many of them without its help, 
would be always at your command. 

On Monday morning last, Sam brought me word that 
there was a man in the kitchen who desired to speak 
with me. 

I ordered him in. A plain, decent, elderly figure made 
its appearance, and being desired to sit, spoke as 
follows : " Sir, I am clerk of the parish of All-Saints, in 
Northampton ; brother of Mr. Cox the upholsterer. It is 
customary for the person in my office to annex to a bill 
of mortality, which he publishes at Christmas, a copy of 
verses. You would do me a great favour, sir, if you 
would furnish me with one." 

To this I replied : " Mr. Cox, you have several men of 
genius in your town, why have you not applied to some 
of them? There is a namesake of yours in particular. 
Cox the statuary, who, everybody knows, is a first-rate 
maker of verses. He surely is the man of all the world 
for your purpose." 

"Alas ! sir, I have heretofore borrowed help from him, 
but he is a gentleman of so much reading, that the people 
of our town cannot understand him." 

I confess to you, my dear, I felt all the force of the 
compliment implied in this speech, and was almost 
ready to answer, Perhaps, my good friend, they may 
find me unintelligible too for the same reason. But 
on asking him whether he had walked over to Weston 
on purpose to implore the assistance of my Muse, and on 
his replying in the affirmative, I felt my mortified vanity 
a little consoled, and pitying the poor man's distress, 
which appeared to be considerable, promised to supply 
him, 

The waggon has accordingly gone this day to 
Northampton loaded in part with my eflTusions in the 
T 273 



The Dainty Beggar 



mortuary style. A fig for poets who write epitaphs upon 
individuals ! I have written one^ that serves two hutidred 
persons. 

A few days since I received a very obliging letter from 
Mr. iMackenzie. He tells me that his own papers, which 
are by far, he is sorry to say it, the most numerous, are 
marked V.I.Z. 

Accordingly, my dear, I am happy to find that I am 
engaged in a correspondence with Mr. Viz, a gentleman 
for whom I have always entertained the profoundest 
veneration. But the serious fact is, that the papers 
distinguished by those signatures have ever pleased me 
most, and struck me as the work of a sensible man, who 
knows the world well, and has more of Addison's delicate 
humour than anybody. 

A poor man begged food at the Hall lately. The cook 
gave him some vermicelli soup. He ladled it about 
some time with the spoon, and then returned it to her, 
saying, "I am a poor man, it is true, and I am very 
hungry, but yet I cannot eat broth with maggots in it." 

Once more, my dear, a thousand thanks for your box 
full of good things, useful things, and beautiful things. — 
Yours ever, W. C. 



A Parish Clerk thinks better of it, and withdraws 
his threats ^=^ ^^> ^^::^ -^^r^ ^^^ 

DEAR AND REV. SIR, — I avail myself of the oppor- 
tunity of troubling your honour with these lines, 
which I hope you will excuse, which is the very sentiments 
of your humble servant's heart. Ignorantly, rashly, but 
reluctantly, I gave you warning to leave your highly 
respected office and most amiable duty, as being your 
274 



Questions and Answers 

servant, and clerk of this your most well wished parish, 
and place of my succour and support. 

But, dear Sir, I well know it was no fault of yours 
nor from any of my most worthy parishioners. It were 
because I thought I were not sufficiently paid for the 
interments of the silent dead. But will I be a Judas and 
leave the house of my God, the place where His Honour 
dwelleth for a few pieces of money? No. Will I be a 
Peter and deny myself of an office in His Sanctuary and 
cause me to weep bitterly? No. Can I be so unreason- 
able as to deny, if I like and am well, to ring that solemn 
bell that speaks the departure of a soul? No. Can I 
leave digging the tombs of my neighbours and acquaint- 
ances which have many a time made me shudder and 
think of my mortality, when I have dug up the mortal re- 
mains of some perhaps as I well knew? No. And can 
I so abruptly forsake the service of my beloved Church of 
w^hich I have not failed to attend every Sunday for these 
seven and a half years? No. Can I leave waiting upon 
you a minister of that Being that sitteth between the 
Cherubim and flieth upon the wings of the wind? No. 
Can I leave the place where most our holy services nobly 
calls forth and says, " Those whom God have joined 
together '^ (and being as I am a married man) "' let no 
man put asunder"? No. And can I leave that ordinance 
where you say then and there " I baptize thee in the 
name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy 
Ghost," and he becomes regenerate and is grafted into 
the body of Christ's Church? No. Andean I think of 
leaving off cleaning at Easter the House of God in which 
I take such delight, in looking down her aisles and 
beholding her sanctuaries and the table of the Lord ? 
No. And can I forsake taking part in the service of 
Thanksgiving of women after childbirth, when mine own 
275 



Complete Surrender 



wife has been delivered ten times? No. And can I 
leave off waiting on the congregation of the Lord which 
you well know, Sir, is my delight? No. And can I 
forsake the Table of the Lord at which I have feasted 
I suppose some thirty times? No. And, dear Sir, can 
I ever forsake you who have been so kind to me? No. 
And I well know you will not entreat me to leave, 
neither to return from following after you, for where 
you pray there will I pray, where you worship there 
will I worship. Your Church shall be my Church, 
your people shall be my people and your God my 
God. By the waters of Babylon am I to sit down and 
weep and leave thee, O my Church ! and hang my 
harp upon the trees that grow therein? No. One 
thing have I desired of the Lord that I will require 
even that I may dwell in the House of the Lord and to 
visit His temple. More to be desired of me, O my 
Church, than gold, yea than fine gold, sweeter to me than 
honey and the honeycomb. 

Now, kind Sir, the very desire of my heart is still to 
wait upon you. Please tell the Churchwardens all is 
reconciled, and if not, I will get me away into the 
wilderness, and hide me in the desert, in the cleft of the 
rock. But I hope still to be your Gehazi, and when I 
meet my Shunammite to say, " All, all is well." And I 
will conclude my blunders with my oft-repeated prayer, 
" Glory be to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy 
Ghost. As it was in the beginning, is now, and ever 
shall be, world without end. Amen.'' 

P.S. — Now, Sir, 1 shall go on with my fees the same 
as I found them, and will make no more trouble about 
them, but I will not, I cannot leave you, nor your delight- 
ful duties. — Your most obedient servant, 

George G g 

276 



A Minister's Uprising 

Robert Robinson, of Cambridge, describes a day's 
work ^v> ^v> ^=:::> ^c:iv ^::i-- -q> 

Chesterton, May 26, 1784 

OLD FRIEND, — You love I should write folios: 
that depends upon circumstances, and if the 
thunderstorm lasts, it will be so : but what a sad thing 
it is to be forced to write, when one has nothing to say? 
Well, you shall have an apology for not writing, — that is, 
a diary of one day. 

Rose at three o'clock — crawled into the library — 
and met one who said, " Yet a little while is the light 
with you : walk while ye have the light — the night 
Cometh, when no man can work — my father worketh 
hitherto, and I work." 

Rang the great bell, and roused the girls to milking — 
went up to the farm, roused the horse-keeper — fed the 
horses while he was getting up — called the boy to suckle 
the calves, and clean out the cow-house — lighted the 
pipe, walked round the gardens to see what was wanting 
there — went up the paddock to see if the weanling calves 
were well — went down to the ferry, to see whether the 
boy had scooped and cleaned the boats — returned to the 
farm — examined the shoulders, heels, traces, chaff, and 
corn of eight horses going to plough — mended the acre 
staff — cut some thongs, whip-corded the boys' plough 
whips — pumped the troughs full — saw the hogs fed — 
examined the swill tubs, and then the cellar — ordered a 
quarter of malt, for the hogs want grains, and the men 
want beer — filled the pipe again, returned to the river, 
and bought a lighter of turf for dairy fires, and another 
of sedge for ovens — hunted up the wheelbarrows and 
set them a-trundling — returned to the farm, called the 
men to breakfast, and cut the boys' bread and cheese, 
277 



From Five till Noon 

and saw the wooden bottles filled — sent one plough 
to the three-roods, another to the three half-acres, 
and so on — shut the gates, and the clock struck five — 
breakfasted — set two men to ditch the five roods — two 
more to chop sads, and spread about the land — two 
more to throw up muck in the yard — and three men and 
six women to weed wheat — set on the carpenter to re- 
pair cow-cribs, and set them up till winter — the wheeler 
to mend up the old carts, cart-ladders, rakes, etc., pre- 
paratory to hay-time and harvest — walked to the six- 
acres, found hogs in the grass — went back and sent a 
man to hedge and thorn — sold the butcher a fat calf, and 
the suckler a lean one — the clock strikes nine — walked 
into barley-field — barleys fine, picked off a few tiles and 
stones, and cut a few thistles — the peas fine, but foul ; the 
charlock must be topped — the tares doubtful ; the fly 
seems to have taken them — prayed for rain, but could 
not see a cloud — came round to the wheat-field — wheats 
rather thin, but the finest colour in the world — set four 
women on to the shortest wheats — ordered one man to 
weed the ridge of the long wheats — and two women to 
keep rank and file with him in the furrows — thistles 
many — blue-bottles no end — traversed all the wheat-field 

— came to the fallow-field — the ditchers have run crooked 

— set them straight — the flag-sads cut too much, rush- 
sads too little, strength wasted, shew the men how to 
three-corner them — laid out more work for the ditchers — 
went to the ploughs — set the foot a little higher ; cut a 
wedge, set the coulter deeper, must go and get a new 
mould-board against to-morrow — went to the other plough 

— picked up some wool, and tyed over the traces — 
mended a horse-tree, tyed a thong to the plough- 
hammer — went to see which lands want ploughing first 

— sat down under a bush — wondered how any man could 

278 



Afternoon and Evening 

be so silly as to call me reverend — read two verses and 
thought of his loving-kindness in the midst of his 
temple — gave out, "Come all harmonious tongues," and 
set Mount Ephraim tune — rose up — whistled — the dogs 
wagged their tails, and on we went — got home — dinner 
ready — filled the pipe — drank some milk — and fell asleep 
— woke by the carpenter for some slats, which the sawyer 
must cut — the Reverend Messrs. A. in a coat, B. in a gown 
of black, and C. in one of purple, came to drink tea, and 
to settle whether Gomer was the father of the Celts and 
Gauls and Britons, or only the uncle — proof sheet from 
Mr. Archdeacon — corrected it — washed — dressed — 
went to meeting, and preached from, The end of all t hi figs 
is at handj be ye sober and watch tmto prayer — found a 
dear brother reverence there, who went home with me, 
and edified us all out of Solomon's Song, with a dish of 
tripe out of Leviticus, and a golden candlestick out of 
Exodus. — Really and truly we look for you and Mrs. 
Keene and Mr. Dore at harvest; and if you do not come 
I know what you all are. 

Let Mr. Winch go where he can better himself. Is not 
this a folio? And like many other folios? 

R. Robinson. 



Charles Lamb saves George Dyer's life ^^^ <:i^ 
(To John Rickman) 

[? November 1801] 

A LETTER from G. Dyer will probably accompany 
this. I wish I could convey to you any notion of 
the whimsical scenes I have been witness to in this 
fortnight past. 'Twas on Tuesday week the poor heathen 
279 



The Old Burnt Preface 

scrambled up to my door about breakfast time. He 
came thro' a violent rain with no neckcloth on, and a 
beard that made him a spectacle to men and angels, and 
tap'd at the door. Mary open'd it, and he stood stark 
still and held a paper in his hand importing that he had 
been ill with a fever. He either wouldn't or couldn't 
speak except by signs. When you went to comfort him 
he put his hand upon his heart and shook his head 
and told us his complaint lay where no medicines could 
reach it. I was dispatch'd for Dr. Dale, Mr. Phillips of 
St. Paul's Churchyard, and Mr. Frend, who is to be his 
executor. George solemnly delivered into Mr. Trend's 
hands and mine an old burnt preface that had been in the 
fire, with injunctions which we solemnly vow'd to obey 
that it should be printed after his death with his last 
corrections, and that some account should be given to the 
world why he had not fulfill'd his engagement with 
subscribers. Having done this and borrow'd two guineas 
of his bookseller (to whom he imparted in confidence 
that he should leave a great many loose papers behind 
him which would only want methodising and arranging 
to prove very lucrative to any bookseller after his death), 
he laid himself down on my bed in a mood of complacent 
resignation. By the aid of meat and drink put into him 
(for I all along suspected a vacuum) he was enabled to 
sit up in the evening, but he had not got the better of his 
intolerable fear of dying ; he expressed such philosophic 
indifference in his speech and such frightened appre- 
hensions in his physiognomy that if he had truly been 
dying, and I had known it, I could not have kept my 
countenance. In particular, when the doctor came and 
ordered him to take little white powders (I suppose of chalk 
or alum, to humour him), he ey'd him with a suspicion which 
I could not account for; he has since explain'd that he 
280 



Dirty Niece and Dirtier Nephew 

took it for granted Dr. Dale knew his situation and 
had ordered him these powders to hasten his departure 
that he might suffer as little pain as possible. Think what 
an aspect the heathen put on with these fears upon a dirty 
face. To recount all his freaks for two or three days 
while he thought he was going, and how the fit operated, 
and sometimes the man got uppermost and sometimes the 
author, and he had this excellent person to serve, and 
he must correct some proof sheets for Phillips, and he 
could not bear to leave his subscribers unsatisfy'd, but 
he must not think of these things now, he was going to 
a place where he should satisfy all his debts — and when 
he got a little better he began to discourse what a happy 
thing it would be if there was a place where all the good 
men and women in the world might meet, meaning 
heav'n, and I really believe for a time he had doubts 
about his soul, for he was very near, if not quite, light- 
headed. The fact was he had not had a good meal for 
some days and his little dirty Niece (whom he sent for 
with a still dirtier Nephew, and hugg'd him, and bid 
them farewell) told us that unless he dines out he sub- 
sists on tea and gruels. And he corroborated this tale 
by ever and anon complaining of sensations of gnawing 
which he felt about his hea?'t, which he mistook his 
stomach to be, and sure enough these gnawings were 
dissipated after a meal or two, and he surely thinks that 
he has been rescued from the jaws of death by Dr. Dale's 
white powders. He is got quite well again by nursing, 
and chirps of odes and lyric poetry the day long — he is 
to go out of town on Monday, and with him goes the 
dirty train of his papers and books which followed him to 
our house. I shall not be sorry when he takes his nipt 
carcase out of my bed, which it has occupied, and 
vanishes with all his Lyric lumber, but I will endeavour 
281 



George Burnett's Case 

to bring him in future into a method of dining at least 
once a day. I have proposed to him to dine with me 
(and he has nearly come into it) whenever he does not 
go out ; and pay me. I will take his money beforehand 
and he shall eat it out. If I don't it will go all over the 
world. Some worthless relations, of which the dirty 
little devil that looks after him and a still more dirty 
nephew are component particles, I have reason to think 
divide all his gains with some lazy worthless authors that 
are his constant satellites. The Literary Fund has voted 
him seasonably ^20, and if I can help it he shall spend 
it on his own carcase. I have assisted him in arranging 
the remainder of what he calls Poems and he will get 
rid of 'em I hope in another [Here three lines are torn 
away at the foot of the page, wherein La?nb makes the 
transition from George Dyer to another poor author, 
George Bnrnett^ 

I promised Burnett to write when his parcel went. He 
wants me to certify that he is more awake than you think 
him. I believe he may be by this time, but he is so full 
of self-opinion that I fear whether he and Phillips will 
ever do together. What he is to do for PhilHps he 
whimsically seems to consider more as a favour done to 
P. than a job from P. He still persists to call employ- 
ment dependence, and prates about the insolence of book- 
sellers and the tax upon geniuses. Poor devil ! he is 
not launched upon the ocean and is sea-sick with afore- 
thought. I write plainly about him, and he would stare 
and frown finely if he read this treacherous epistle, but 
I really am anxious about him, and that [ ? it] nettles me 
to see him so proud and so helpless. If he is not serv'd 
he will never serve himself. I read his long letter to 
Southey, which I suppose you have seen. He had better 
have been furnishing copy for Phillips than luxuriating 
282 



" Not think it Backbiting " 

in tracing the causes of his imbecility. I believe he is 
a little wrong in not ascribing more to the structure 
of his own mind. He had his yawns from nature, his 
pride from education. 

I hope to see Southey soon, so I need only send my 
remembrance to him now. Doubtless I need not tell 
him that Burnett is not to be foster'd in self-opinion. 
His eyes want opening, to see himself a man of middling 
stature. I am not oculist enough to do this. The book- 
sellers may one day remove the film. I am all this time 
on the most cordial supping terms of amity with G. 
Burnett and really love him at times : but I must speak 
freely of people behind their backs and not think it back- 
biting. It is better than Godwin's way of telling a man 
he is a fool to his face. 

I think if you could do anything for George in the 
way of an office (God knows whether you can in any 
haste, but you did talk of it) it is my firm belief 
that it would be his only chajice of settlement ; he will 
n^ver live by his literary exertions, as he calls them — 
he is too proud to go the usual way to work, and he has 
no talents to make that way unnecessary. I know he 
talks big in his letter to Southey that his mind is under- 
going an alteration and that the die is now casting that 
shall consign him to honour or dishonour, but these ex- 
pressions are the convulsions of a fever, not the sober 
workings of health. Translated into plain English, he 
now and then perceives he must work or starve, and 
then he thinks he'll work ; but when he goes about it 
there's a lion in the way. He came dawdling to me 
for an Encyclopaedia yesterday. I recommended him 
to Norris' library ; and he said if he could not get it 
there Phillips was bound to furnish him with one; it 
was Phillips' interest to do so, and all that. This was 
28,S 



A Life of G. Dyer 

true with some restrictions — but as to Phillips' interests 
to oblige G. B.! Lord help his simple head! P. could 
by a whistle call together a host of such authors as G. B. 
like Robin Hood's merry men in green. P. has regular 
regiments in pay. Poor writers are his crab-lice and 
suck at him for nutriment. His round pudding chops 
are their idea of plenty when /;/ their idle fancies they 
aspire to be rich. 

What do you think of a life of G. Dyer? I can scarcely 
conceive a more amusing novel. He has been connected 
with all sects in the world and he will faithfully tell all 
he knows. Everybody will read it ; and if it is not done 
according to my fancy I promise to put him in a novel 
when he dies. Nothing shall escape 7ne. If you think 
it feasible, whenever you write you may encourage him. 
Since he has been so close with me I have perceiv'd the 
workings of his inordinate vanity, his gigantic attention 
to particles and to prevent open vowels in his odes, his 
solicitude that the public may not lose any tittle of his 
poems by his death, and all the while his utter ignorance 
that the world don't care a pin about his odes and his 
criticisms, a fact which everybody knows but himself — 
he is a rujii genius. C. L. 



William Cowper is solicited for his vote ^^ ^^^ 
(To the Rev. John Newton) 

March 29, 1784 

MY DEAR FRIEND, — It being His Majesty's 
pleasure that I should yet have another oppor- 
tunity to write before he dissolves the Parliament, I avail 
myself of it with all possible alacrity. I thank you for j 
your last, which was not the less welcome for coming, 
284 



The Nature of the Candidate 

like an extraordinary gazette, at a time when it was not 
expected. 

As when the sea is uncommonly agitated, the water 
finds its way into creeks and holes of rocks, which in its 
calmer state it never reaches, in like manner the effect 
of these turbulent times is felt even at Orchard side, 
where in general we live as undisturbed by the political 
element, as shrimps or cockles that have been accident- 
ally deposited in some hollow beyond the water-mark, 
by the usual dashing of the waves. 

We were sitting yesterday after dinner, the two ladies 
and myself, very composedly, and without the least 
apprehension of any such intrusion in our snug parlour, 
one lady knitting, the other netting, and the gentleman 
winding worsted, when to our unspeakable surprise a 
mob appeared before the window ; a smart rap was 
heard at the door, the boys halloo'd, and the maid 
announced Mr. Grenville. 

Puss was unfortunately let out of her box, so that 
the candidate, with all his good friends at his heels, was 
refused admittance at the grand entry, and referred to 
the back door, as the only possible way of approach. 
Candidates are creatures not very susceptible of affronts, 
and would rather, I suppose, climb in at a window, than 
be absolutely excluded. In a minute the yard, the 
kitchen, and the parlour were filled. Mr. Grenville 
advancing toward me, shook me by the hand with a 
degree of cordiality that was extremely seducing. As 
soon as he and as many more as could find chairs were 
seated, he began to open the intent of his visit. 

I told him I had no vote, for which he readily gave me 
credit. 

I assured him I had no influence, which he was not 
equally inclined to believe, and the less, no doubt, 
285 



" A most Kissing Gentleman " 

because Mr. Ashburner, the draper, addressing himself 
to me at this moment, informed me that I had a great 
deal. Supposing that I could not be possessed of such 
a treasure without knowing it, I ventured to confirm my 
first assertion, by saying, that if I had any I was utterly 
at a loss to imagine where it could be, or wherein it 
consisted. Thus ended the conference. Mr. Grenville 
squeezed me by the hand again, kissed the ladies, and 
withdrew. 

He kissed likewise the maid in the kitchen, and 
seemed upon the whole a most loving, kissing, kind- 
hearted gentleman. 

He is very young, genteel, and handsome. He has 
a pair of very good eyes in his head, which not being 
sufficient as it should seem for the many nice and diffi- 
cult purposes of a senator, he has a third also, which he 
wore suspended by a ribband from his buttonhole. 

The boys halloo'd, the dogs barked, Puss scampered, 
the hero, with his long train of obsequious followers, 
withdrew. We made ourselves very merry with the 
adventure, and in a short time settled into our former 
tranquillity, never probably to be thus interrupted more. 
I thought myself, however, happy in being able to affirm 
truly that I had not that influence for which he sued; 
and which, had I been possessed of it, with my present 
views of the dispute between the Crown and the Commons, 
I must have refused him, for he is on the side of the 
former. It is comfortable to be of no consequence in 
a world where one cannot exercise any without dis- 
obliging somebody. The town, however, seems to be 
much at his service, and if he be equally successful 
throughout the county, he will undoubtedly gain his 
election. 

Mr. Ashburner, perhaps, was a little mortified, because it 
286 



John Poole in Bed 



was evident that I owed the honour of this visit to his 
misrepresentation of my importance. But had he thought 
proper to assure Mr. Grenville that I had three heads, I 
should not, I suppose, have been bound to produce them. 

Charles Dickens gives Wilkie Collins news of John 
Poole -"v^ -^^ "n::> ^^^:> ^^::> ^^^i^ 



I SAW Poole (for my sins) last Saturday, and he was 
a sight. He had got out of bed to receive me (at 
3 p.m.) and tried to look as if he had been up at Dawn — 
with a dirty and obviously warm impression of himself on 
the bedclothes. It was a tent bedstead with four wholly 
unaccounted for and bare poles, each with an immense 
spike on the top, like four Lightning conductors. He 
had a fortnight's grey beard, and had made a lot of the 
most extraordinary memoranda of questions to ask me 
— which he couldn't read — through an eyeglass which 
he couldn't hold. He was continually beset with a 
notion that his landlady was listening outside the door, 
and was continually getting up from a kind of ironing- 
board at which he sat, with the intention of darting at 
the door, but invariably missed his aim, and brought 
himself up by the forehead against blind corners of the 
wall. He had a dressing-gown over his nightshirt, and 
wore his trousers where Blondin wears his Baskets. He 
said, with the greatest indignation, I might suppose what 
sort of " society " he could get out of his landlady, when 
he mentioned that she could say nothing, on being con- 
sulted by him touching the Poison-Case at the Old 
Bailey, but, "People didn't ought to poison people, sir; 
it's wrong." — Ever affec'ly, C. D. 

287 



Another Model 

Another model letter from Mary Guilhermin's book, 
1766 ^^:> ^^:> ^^^ ^v> ^==:> ^=^ 

DEAR MAMMA, — I am much obliged to papa and 
you for thinking on me ; the taylor took measure 
of me yesterday, and promises me my new suit by next 
Sunday. I shall examine every pocket in hopes of 
finding a blessing from dear mamma ; whose tenderness 
and spirit, I am persuaded, will not permit her to let her 
son appear less than others, as my school-fellows are 
indulged for good behaviour to go next week with our 
mistress and see a play exhibited by some strollers in the 
next village ; we have had an account of its being very 
merry and entertaining. Everyone is intent on the 
promised diversion, and I hope you will not disappoint 
the proposed pleasure of your affectionate and dutiful 



288 



XIII 

THE PEN REFLECTIVE 

Horace Walpole in the vein of Ecclesiastes ^::y 

(To George Montagu, Esq.) 

Paris, Nove7nber 21, 1765 

YOU must not be surprised when my letters arrive 
long after their date. I write them at my leisure 
and send them when I find any Englishman going to 
London, that I may not be kept in check, if they were 
to pass through both French and English posts. 

Your letter to Madame Roland, and the books for her, will 
set out very securely in a day or two. My bookseller here 
happens to be of Rheims, and knows Madame Roland, 
comme deux goiittes d'eau. This perhaps is not a well- 
placed simile, but the French always use one, and when 
they are once established, and we know the tense, it 
does not signify sixpence for the sense. 

My gout and my stick have entirely left me. I totter 

still, it is true, but I trust I shall be able to whisk about 

at Strawberry as well almost as ever. When that hour 

strikes ; to be sure I shall not be very long. The same- 

u ■ 2 89 



Old Age and Friends 

ness of the life here is worse than anything but English 
politics and the House of Commons. Indeed, I have 
Dumenil. The Dauphin, who is not dead yet, detains 
the whole camp at Fontainebleau, whither I dare not 
venture, as the situation is very damp, and the lodgings 
abominable. Sights, too, I have scarce seen any yet; 
and I must satisfy my curiosity; for I think I shall 
never come again — no, let us sit down quietly and com- 
fortably, and enjoy our coming old age. Oh! if you 
are in earnest and transplant yourself to Roehampton, 
how happy I shall be! You know, if you beheve an 
experience of above thirty years, that you are one of 
the very, very few, for whom I really care a straw. 
You know how long I have been vexed at seeing so 
little of you. What has one to do, when one grows 
tired of the world, as we both do, but to draw nearer 
and nearer, and gently waste the remains of life with 
the friends with whom one began it ! Young and 
happy people will have no regard for us and our old 
stories, and they are in the right; but we shall not 
tire one another; we shall laugh together when nobody 
is by to laugh at us, and we may think ourselves young 
enough when we see nobody younger. Roehampton is 
a delightful spot, at once cheerful and retired. You will 
amble in your chaise about Richmond-park; we shall 
see one another as often as we like ; I shall frequently 
peep at London, and bring you tales of it, and we shall 
sometimes touch a card with the Clive, and laugh our 
fill ; for I must tell you, I desire to die when I have 
nobody left to laugh with me. I have never yet seen 
or heard anything serious that was not ridiculous. 
Jesuits, methodists, philosophers, politicians, the 
hypocrite Rousseau, the scoffer Voltaire, the encyclo- 
pedists, the Humes, the Lytteltons, the Grenvilles, the 
290 



Rabelais' Easy-Chair 

atheist tyrant of Prussia, and the Mountebank of 
History, Mr. Pitt, all are to me but impostors in their 
various ways. Fame or interest is their object ; and 
after all their parade, I think a ploughman who sows, 
reads his almanack, and believes the stars but so many 
farthing candles, created to prevent his falling into a 
ditch as he goes home at night, a wiser and more 
rational being, and, I am sure, an honester than any of 
them. Oh ! I am sick of visions and systems, that 
shove one another aside, and come over again, like 
the figures in a moving picture. Rabelais brightens 
up to me as I see more of the world ; he treated it as 
it deserved, laughed at it all, and, as I judge from 
myself, ceased to hate it ; for I find hatred an unjust 
preference. Adieu ! 

Lady Mary Wortley Montagu contemplates facts ^;^ 
(To E. W. Montagu, Esq.) 

Deceinber 9, 1 7 1 1 

I AM not at all surprised at my Aunt Cheyne's con- 
duct : people are seldom very much grieved (and 
never ought to be) at misfortunes they expect. When I 
gave myself to you, I gave up the very desire of pleasing 
the rest of the world, and am pretty indifferent about it. 
I think you are very much in the right for designing to 
visit Lord Pierrepont. As much as you say I love the 
town, if you think it necessary for your interest to stay 
some time here, I would not advise you to neglect a 
certainty for an uncertainty; but I believe if you pass 
the Christmas here, great matters will be expected from 
your hospitality : however, you are a better judge of that 
than I am. 

291 



Lady Mary's Maxim 

I continue indifferently well, and endeavour as much 
as I can to preserve myself from spleen and melancholy ; 
not for my own sake ; I think that of little importance ; 
but in the condition I am, I believe it may be of very 
ill consequence ; yet, passing whole days alone as I do, 
I do not always find it possible, and my constitution will 
sometimes get the better of my reason. Human nature 
itself, without any additional misfortunes, furnishes dis- 
agreeable meditations enough. Life itself, to make it 
supportable, should not be considered too nearly ; my 
reason represents to me in vain the inutility of serious 
reflections. 

The idle mind will sometimes fall into contemplations 
that serve for nothing but to ruin the health, destroy 
good humour, hasten old age and wrinkles, and bring 
on an habitual melancholy. 

'Tis a maxim with me to be young as long as one can : 
there is nothing can pay one for that invaluable ignorance 
which is the companion of youth ; those sanguine ground- 
less hopes, and that lively vanity, which make all the 
happiness of life. To my extreme mortification I grow 
wiser every day. I don't believe Solomon was more 
convinced of the vanity of temporal affairs than I am : 
I lose all taste of this world, and I suffer myself to 
be bewitched by the charms of the spleen, though I 
know and foresee all the irremediable mischiefs arising 
from it. 

I am insensibly fallen into the writing you a melan- 
choly letter, after all my resolutions to the contrary; 
but I do not enjoin you to read it. Make no scruple of 
flinging it into the fire at the first dull line. 

Forgive the ill effects of my solitude, and think me, 
as I am, ever yours, M. W. Montagu 



292 



An Illusion of Youth 

William Covvper moralises on Time "=^> ^^^ ^::y 

(To Mrs. Covvper) 

August 31, 1780 

MY DEAR COUSIN, — I am obliged to you for 
your long letter, which did not seem so ; and 
for your short one, which was more than I had any 
reason to expect. 

Short as it was, it conveyed to me two interesting 
articles of intelligence : An account of your recovering 
from a fever, and of Lady Cowper's death. The latter 
was, I suppose, to be expected, for by what remembrance 
I have of her ladyship, who was never much acquainted 
with her, she had reached those years that are always 
found upon the borders of another world. As for you, 
your time of life is comparatively of a youthful date. 
You may think of death as much as you please (you 
cannot think of it too much), but I hope you will live 
to think of it many years. 

It costs me not much difficulty to suppose that my 
friends who were already grown old when I saw them 
last, are old still ; but it costs me a good deal sometimes 
to think of those who were at that time young, as being 
older than they were. Not having been an eye-witness 
of the change that time has made in them, and my 
former idea of them not being corrected by observation, 
it remains the same ; my memory presents me with this 
image unimpaired, and while it retains the resemblance 
of what they were, forgets that by this time the picture 
may have lost much of its likeness, through the alteration 
that succeeding years have made in the original. I 
know not what impressions Time may have made upon 
your person, for while his claws, (as our grannams called 
293 



Time, the Friend and Foe 

them) strike deep furrows in some faces, he seems to 
sheathe them with much tenderness, as if fearful of doing 
injury to others. 

But though an enemy to the person, he is a friend 
to the mind, and you have found him so. 

Though even in this respect his treatment of us de- 
pends upon what he meets with at our hands ; if we 
use him well, and listen to his admonitions, he is a friend 
indeed, but otherwise the worst of enemies, who takes 
from us daily something that we valued, and gives us 
nothing better in its stead. It is well with them who, 
like you, can stand a-tiptoe on the mountain top of 
human life, look down with pleasure upon the valley they 
have passed, and sometimes stretch their wings in joyful 
hope of a happy flight into eternity. Yet a little while, 
and your hope will be accomplished. 

When you can favour me with a little account of your 
own family, without inconvenience, I shall be glad to 
receive it ; for though separated from my kindred by 
little more than half a century of miles, I know as little 
of their concerns as if oceans and continents were inter- 
posed between us. — Yours, my dear cousin, 

W. C. 



James Beattie compares himself with others -^> <::y 
(To the Hon. Charles Boyd) 

Aberdeen, November i6, 1766 

LUCKILY I am now a little better, so as to be able 
to read a page, and write a sentence or two without 
stopping ; which, I assure you, is a very great matter. 
My hopes and my spirits begin to revive once more. 
294 



Points of Similarity 

I flatter myself I shall soon get rid of this infirmity ; 
nay, that I shall ere long, be in the way of becoming 
a great ina7i. 

For have I not headaches, like Pope? vertigo, like 
Swift? grey hairs, like Homer? Do I not wear large 
shoes (for fear of corns) like Virgil? and sometimes com- 
plain of sore eyes (though not of lippitiide), like Horace? 
Am I not at this present writing invested with a garment 
not less ragged than that of Socrates? Like Joseph the 
patriarch, I am a mighty dreamer of dreams ; like 
Nimrod the hunter, I am an eminent builder of castles 
(in the air). 

I procrastinate, Hke Julius Caesar, and very lately, in 
imitation of Don Quixote, I rode a horse, lean, old, and 
lazy, like Rosinante. 

Sometimes, like Cicero, I write bad verses ; and some- 
times bad prose, like Virgil. This last instance I have 
on the authority of Seneca. 

I am of small stature, like Alexander the Great ; I am 
somewhat inclinable to fatness, like Dr. Arbuthnot and 
Aristotle ; and I drink brandy and water, like Mr. Boyd. 

I might compare myself, in relation to many other 
infirmities, to many other great men ; but if Fortune is 
not influenced in my favour by the particulars already 
enumerated, I shall despair of ever recommending 
myself to her good graces. I once had some thought of 
soliciting her patronage on the score of my resembling 
great men in their good qualities ; but I had so little to say 
on that subject, that I could not for my life furnish matter 
for one well-rounded period: and you know a short, ill- 
turned speech is very improper to be used in an address 
to a female deity. 

Do not you think there is a sort of antipathy between 
philosophical and poetical genius? I question whether 
295 



Poets and Philosophers 

one person was ever eminent for both. Lucretius lays 
aside the poet when he assumes the philosopher, and 
the philosopher when he assumes the poet. In the one 
character he is truly excellent, in the other he is ab- 
solutely nonsensical. 

Hobbes was a tolerable metaphysician, but his poetry 
is the worst that ever was. Pope's Essay on Matt is 
the finest philosophical poem in the world ; but it seems 
to me to do more honour to the imagination than to the 
understanding of its author : I mean, its sentiments are 
noble and affecting, its images and allusions apposite, 
beautiful, and new ; its wit transcendently excellent ; but 
the scientific part of it is very exceptionable. 

Whatever Pope borrows from Leibnitz, like most other 
metaphysical theories, is frivolous and unsatisfying. 
What Pope gives us of his own, is energetic, irresistible, 
and divine. The incompatibility of philosophical and 
poetical genius is, I think, no unaccountable thing. 

Poetry exhibits the general qualities of a species ; 
philosophy the particular qualities of individuals. 

This forms its conclusions from a painful and minute 
examination of single instances : that decides in- 
stantaneously, either from its own instinctive sagacity, 
or from a singular and unaccountable penetration, which 
at one glance sees all the instances which the philosopher 
must leisurely and progressively scrutinise, one by one. 
This persuades you gradually, and by detail ; the other 
overpowers you in an instant by a single effort. Observe 
the effect of argumentation in poetry ; we have too many 
instances of it in Milton : it transforms the noblest 
thoughts into drawling inferences, and the most beautiful 
language into prose, it checks the tide of passion, by 
giving the mind a different employment in the comparison 
of ideas. 

296 



The Grave's Alleviations 

A little philosophical acquaintance with the most beau- 
tiful parts of nature, both in the material and immaterial 
system, is of use to a poet, and gives grace and solidity 
to poetry ; as may be seen in The Georgics^ The Seasons, 
and The Pleasures of Iiiiagmatioji ; but this acquaintance, 
if it is anything more than superficial, will do a poet 
rather harm than good ; and will give his mind that turn 
for minute observation which enfeebles the fancy by 
restraining it, and counteracts the native energy of judg- 
ment by rendering it fearful and suspicious. 



The Rev. Sydney Smith contemplates another and a 
better life . ^^ -o^ >v> -^^ ^:::y 

Combe Florey, September 13, 1842 

MY DEAR LADY HOLLAND,— I am sorry to hear 
Allen is not well ; but the reduction of his legs is 
a pure and unmixed good ; they are enormous, — they are 
clerical! He has the creed of a philosopher and the legs 
of a clergyman ; I never saw such legs, — at least, belong- 
ing to a layman. 

Read A Life in the Forest, skipping nimbly ; but there 
is much of good in it. 

It is a bore, I admit, to be past seventy, for you are left 
for execution, and are daily expecting the death-warrant ; 
but, as you say, it is not anything very capital we quit. 
We are, at the close of life, only hurried away from 
stomach-aches, pains in the joints, from sleepless nights 
and unamusing days, from weakness, ugliness, and 
nervous tremors ; but we shall all meet again in another 

planet, cured of all our defects. will be less 

irritable; more silent; will assent; Jeffrey will 

speak slower ; Bobus will be just as he is ; I shall be more 
297 



Seneca's Bailiff 

respectful to the upper clergy ; but I shall have as lively 
a sense as I now have of all your kindness and affection 
for me. Sydney Smith 

Seneca enlarges to Lucilius on old age ^oy '<;^ 

WHITHERSOEVER I turn myself, spectacles, re- 
minding me of my old age, present themselves. 
I went the other day to my country house just without 
the city, and was complaining how much it seemed out 
of repair, notwithstanding the money which I had laid 
out upon it. " It may be so," said my bailiff, " but it is 
from no want of care in me. I have done all in my 
power to keep it up, but the truth is, it is very old.''' Now 
you must know this villa was of my own raising, and has 
grown to its present state under my hands. What then 
have I to expect, if stones laid down in my own time 
have begun to show symptoms of decay ? Being put by this 
a little out of humour with the man, I laid hold of the first 
occasion of finding fault. " It seems to me," said I, 
" that these plane trees have been neglected — how rotten 
and withered are these branches! In what a wretched 
and foul condition are these stems ! This would not have 
happened if anyone had dug round it, and given it water." 
Upon this my baiHff swears heartily that he had done all he 
could, and spared no pains, but that they were old. Now, 
between ourselves, I planted these trees, and witnessed their 
first foliage. Turning to the gate, I said, "And pray who 
is that decrepit old fellow whom you have, properly enough, 
placed here, with his face turned towards the door? 
Where in the world did you pick up this man? What 
whim is this, to bring this strange corpse into my 
house?" "What! don't you know me?" says the 
old man ; " I am Felicio, to whom you used formerly 
298 



Pleasures of Decay 

to bring playthings. I am the son of Philositus, your 
former bailiff: your little favourite playfellow." " Surely,"" 
said I, " the man is out of his mind. He my little play- 
fellow! The thing is impossible. But yet it may be, tor 
I see he is shedding his teeth." 

Thus am I indebted to my villa for reminding me, at 
every turn, of my old age. Let us embrace it, let us love 
it. To him who knows how to use it, it is full of 
enjoyment. 

Fruit is most grateful towards the end of the season. 
Youth, when one is just losing it, is the most attractive. 
The last potation is the most agreeable to the lovers of 
wine ; and every pleasure is most valued when it is 
coming to its end. Decay, when it is gradual, and not 
precipitate, is really pleasant. I don't fear to pronounce a 
man standing on the very ultimate verge of life to have his 
solace ; or at least we may say that the absence of all 
want is itself a sort of pleasure. How sweet it is to have 
lived out, and taken leave of, all anxious desires ! 

But you will say that it is painful to have death before 
our eyes. My answer is in the first place, that it ought 
always to be before the eyes as well of the young as of the 
old, for we are not summoned as we stand in the register ; 
and then that no one is so old as to make it sinful to 
expect another day. Every day is another step in life. 
All our time consists of parts : of circles within circles of 
different orbits, some one of which comprehends the rest ; 
and thus compasses the whole life of man from the 
beginning to the end of life. One includes the years of 
youth ; another circumscribes only the period of child- 
hood. A single year includes all those portions of time, 
of which the whole of existence is but the multiplication. 
A month lies within a narrower circle, and a day within 
one still of smaller extent. And yet the day has its 
299 



The Wise Pacuvlus 

beginning and its end, from the rising to the setting 
sun. Heraclitus, who from his obscurity got the name of 
Scotinus, says " dies par omni est " : which some interpret, 
as if he had said, They are equal as to hours, which is 
true enough ; for if a day is a period of six hours, in 
that respect all days are equal : since the night takes up 
what the day loses. 

Another holds the meaning to be, that one day is but 
the counterpart of the other. After all, the longest space 
of time exhibits only what may be found in one day — 
light and darkness, with their vicissitudes and alternations. 
Every day should be therefore so ordered and disposed, 
as if it closed the series, and were the measure and 
completion of our existence. Pacuvius, who made Syria 
his own country by long residence in it, when he had 
regaled himself with wine and feasting, as at a funeral 
banquet, caused himself to be carried from supper to his 
bed-chamber, that, amidst the applause of his companions, 
the following words might be chanted to music, /Je^aicotat, 
/SeOatwlaL, " He hath lived, he hath lived " ; and such was 
his practice every day. Now this that was done by him 
with a bad conscience, let us do with a good one; and 
when retiring to our rest, let us with composed and 
cheerful spirits have to say, "Vixi, et quern cursum 
dederat fortuna peregi." If God should vouchsafe us a 
to-morrow, let us receive it with joy and thankfulness. 

He is the happiest man, — the secure possessor of 
himself, who waits for the morrow without solicitude ; — 
he who can go to bed at night saying, " I have lived," in 
the full sense of the phrase, rises every morning with a 
day gained. 



300 



Exiled to Enfield 

Charles Lamb laments his exile <^ ^^^ ^:> 

(To William Wordsworth) 

p.m. January 22^ 1830 

AND is it a year since we parted from you at the 
steps of Edmonton Stage? There are not now the 
years that there used to be. The tale of the dwinded age 
of men, reported of successional mankind, is true of the 
same man only. We do not live a year in a year now. 
Tis a piinctiun stans. The seasons pass us with indiffer- 
ence. Spring cheers not, nor winter heightens our gloom, 
Autumn hath foregone its moralities, they are hey-pass 
re-pass [as] in a show-box. Yet as far as last year occurs 
back, for they scarce show a reflex now, they make no 
memory as heretofore — ''twas sufficiently gloomy. Let 
the sullen nothing pass. 

Suffice it that after sad spirits prolonged thro' many of 
its months, as it called them, we have cast our skins, 
have taken a farewell of the pompous troublesome trifle 
called housekeeping, and are settled down into poor 
boarders and lodgers at next door with an old couple, 
the Baucis and Baucida of dull Enfield. Here we have 
nothing to do with our victuals but to eat them, with 
the garden but to see it grow, with the tax gatherer but 
to hear him knock, with the maid but to hear her 
scolded. Scot and lot, butcher, baker, are things un- 
known to us save as spectators of the pageant. We 
are fed we know not how, quietists, confiding ravens. 
We have the otiinn pro dignitate., a respectable insignifi- 
cance. Yet in the self-condemned obliviousness, in the 
stagnation, some molesting yearnings of life, not quite 
kiird, rise, prompting me that there was a London, and 
that I was of that old Jerusalem. In dreams I am in 
301 



The Forlorn Londoner 

Fleetmarket, but I wake and cry to sleep again. I die 
hard, a stubborn Eloisa in this detestable Paraclete. 
What have I gained by health ? intolerable dulness. 
What by early hours and moderate meals? — a total 
blank. O never let the lying poets be believed, who 
'tice men from the cheerful haunts of streets — or think 
they mean it not of a country village. In the ruins of 
Palmyra I could gird myself up to solitude, or muse to 
the snorings of the Seven Sleepers, but to have a little 
teazing image of a town about one, country folks that 
do not look like country folks, shops two yards square, 
half a dozen apples and two penn'orth of overlooked 
gingerbread for the lofty fruiterers of Oxford Street — 
and, for the immortal book and print stalls, a circulating 
library that stands still, where the shew-picture is a last 
year's Valentine, and whither the fame of the last ten 
Scotch novels has not yet traveled (marry, they just 
begin to be conscious of the Red Gauntlet), to have a 
new plastered flat church, and to be wishing that it was 
but a Cathedral. The very blackguards here are de- 
generate. The topping gentry, stock brokers. The pas- 
sengers too many to ensure your quiet, or let you 
go about whistling, or gaping — too few to be the fine 
indifferent pageants of Fleet Street. Confining, room- 
keeping thickest winter is yet more bearable here than 
the gaudy months. Among one's books at one's fire by 
candle one is soothed into an oblivion that one is not 
m the country, but with the light the green fields return, 
till I gaze, and in a calenture can plunge myself into 
Saint Giles's. O let no native Londoner imagine that 
health, and rest, and innocent occupation, interchange 
of converse sweet and recreative study, can make the 
country any thing better than altogether odious and 
detestable. A garden was the primitive prison till man 
302 



The Newspaper Dove 

with promethean felicity and boldness luckily sinn'd him- 
self out of it. Thence followed Babylon, Nineveh, Venice, 
London, haberdashers, goldsmiths, taverns, playhouses, 
satires, epigrams, puns — these all came in on the town 
part, and the thither side of innocence. Man found out 
inventions. 

From my den I return you condolence for your decay- 
ing sight, not for any thing there is to see in the country, 
but for the miss of the pleasure of reading a London 
newspaper. The poets are as well to listen to, any thing 
high may, nay must, be read out — you read it to yourself 
with an imaginary auditor — but the light paragraphs 
must be glid over by the proper eye, mouthing mumbles 
their gossamery substance. ''Tis these trifles I should 
mourn in fading sight. A newspaper is the single gleam 
of comfort I receive here, it comes from rich Cathay with 
tidings of mankind. Yet I could not attend to it read 
out by the most beloved voice. But your eyes do not get 
worse, I gather. O for the collyrium of Tobias enclosed 
in a whiting's liver to send you with no apocryphal good 
wishes ! The last long time I heard from you, you had 
knocked your head against something. Do not do so. 
For your head (I do pot flatter) is not a nob, or the top 
of a brass nail, or the end of a nine-pin — unless a Vul- 
canian hammer could fairly batter a " Recluse " out of 
it, then would I bid the smirch'd god knock and knock 
lustily, the two-handed skinker. What a nice long letter 
Dorothy has written ! Mary must squeeze out a line 
propria inami^ but indeed her fingers have been incor- 
rigibly nervous to letter-writing for a long interval. 
'Twill please you all to hear that, tho' I fret like a 
lion in a net, her present health and spirits are better 
than they have been for some time past : she is absolutely 
three years and a half younger, as I tell her, since we 
303 



Daddy Westwood 

have adopted this boarding plan. Our providers are an 
honest pair, dame Westwood and her husband — he, when 
the hght of . prosperity shined on them, a moderately 
thriving haberdasher within Bow Bells, retired since with 
something under a competence, writes himself parcel 
gentleman, hath borne parish offices, sings fine old sea 
songs at threescore and ten, sighs only now and then 
when he thinks that he has a son on his hands about 
15, whom he finds a difficulty in getting out into the 
world, and then checks a sigh with muttering, as I 
once heard him prettily, not meaning to be heard, " I 
have married my daughter however," — takes the weather 
as it comes, outsides it to town in severest season, and 
a' winter nights tells old stories not tending to literature, 
how comfortable to author-rid folks ! and has one anecdote, 
upon which and about forty pounds a year he seems to 
have retired in green old age. It was how he was a 
rider in his youth, travelling for shops, and once (not to 
baulk his employers bargain) on a sweltering day in 
August, rode foaming into Dunstable upon a mad horse 
to the dismay and expostulary wonderment of innkeepers, 
ostlers, etc., who declared they would not have bestrid the 
beast to win the Darby. Understand the creature gall'd 
to death and desperation by gad flies, cormorants winged, 
worse than beset Inachus' daughter. This he tells, this 
he brindles and burnishes on a' winter's eves, 'tis his star 
of set glory, his rejuvenescence to descant upon. Far 
from me be it {dii avertanf) to look a gift story in the 
mouth, or cruelly to surmise (as those who doubt the 
plunge of Curtius) that the inseparate conjuncture of 
man and beast, the centaur-phenomenon that stagger'd 
all Dunstable, might have been the effect of unromantic 
necessity, that the horse-part carried the reasoning, willy 
nilly, that needs must when such a devil drove, that 
304 



A Portrait 

certain spiral configurations in the frame of Thomas 
Westwood unfriendly to alighting, made the alliance 
more forcible than voluntary. Let him enjoy his fame 
for me, nor let me hint a whisper that shall dismount 
Bellerophon. Put case he was an involuntary martyr, 
yet if in the fiery conflict he buckled the soul of a 
constant haberdasher to him, and adopted his flames, 
let Accident and He share the glory! You would all 
like Thomas Westwood. 



How weak is painting to describe a man ! Say that he 
stands four feet and a nail high by his own yard measure, 
which like the Sceptre of Agamemnon shall never sprout 
again, still you have no adequate idea, nor when I tell you 
that his dear hump, which I have favoured in the picture, 
seems to me of the Buffalo — indicative and repository 
of mild qualities, a budget of kindnesses, still you have 
not the man. Knew you old Norris of the Temple, 60 
years ours and our father's friend, he was not more 
natural to us than this old W. the acquaintance of 
scarce more weeks. Under his roof now ought I to 
take my rest, but that back-looking ambition tells me I 
might yet be a Londoner. Well, if we ever do move, 
we have encumbrances the less to impede us : all our 
furniture has faded under the auctioneer's hammer, going 
for nothing like the tarnish'd frippery of the prodigal, 
and we have only a spoon or two left to bless us. 
Clothed we came into Enfield, and naked we must go out 
of it. I would live in London shirtless, bookless. Henry 
X 305 



Emma Isola 

Crabb is at Rome, advices to that effect have reached 
Bury. But by solemn legacy he bequeathed at parting 
(whether he should live or die) a Turkey of Suffolk to be 
sent every succeeding Xmas to us and divers other friends. 
What a genuine old Bachelor's action! I fear he will 
find the air of Italy too classic. His station is in the 
Hartz forest, his soul is Bego'ethed. Miss Kelly we 
never see ; Talfourd not this half-year ; the latter 
flourishes, but the exact number of his children, God 
forgive me, I have utterly forgotten, we single people are 
often out in our count there. Shall I say two? One 
darling I know they have lost within a twelvemonth, but 
scarce known to me by sight, and that was a second child 
lost. We see scarce anybody. We have just now Emma 
with us for her holydays : you remember her playing at 
brag with Mr. Quillinan at poor Monkhouse's! She is 
grown an agreeable young woman ; she sees what I 
write, so you may understand me with limitations. She 
was our inmate for a twelvemonth, grew natural to us, 
and then they told us it was best for her to go out as a 
Governess, and so she went out, and we were only two 
of us, and our pleasant house-mate is changed to an 
occasional visitor. If they want my sister to go out (as 
they call it) there will be only one of us. Heaven keep 
us all from this acceding to Unity! 

Can I cram loves enough to you all in this little O? 
Excuse particularising. C. L. 



306 



XIV 
THE MEN OF ACTION 

Abraham Cann, the Devonshire wrestler, challenges 
Polkinghorne, the Cornishman ^ ^:> ^^:> 

POLKINGHORNE, I will take off my stockings and 
play bare-legged with you, and you may have two 
of the hardest and heaviest shoes you like that can be 
made of feather in the county of Cornwall, and you shall 
be allowed to stuff yourself as high as the arm pits, to 
any extent not exceeding the size of a Cornish peck of 
wool ; and I will further engage not to kick you, if you 
do not kick me. 



C. A., an old and not unsophisticated bowler, gives 
his captain a word of counsel on the eve of the 
All England match ^^^ ^:^ ^=^> "^> 

DEAR JOHN, — So I am to bowl for your people 
against them Englanders. You wants to win, 
don't you now? Then don't be so stupid as to roll your 
ground. — Yours, C. A. 

307 



"The ball is 'over'" 
Bob Thorns the umpire sends in his resignation ^::> 

(To Sir William Russell of the Incognito C.C.) 

March 15, 1901, N. W. 

SIR, — The hardest letter, that ever I handled the pen, 
to write, I now commence, and that is, through fail- 
ing health — coupled with " Anno Domini " — I have to 
close my Cricket career — after 39 years of devoted ser- 
vices to the Incognito club. 

I had hoped to have been with you one more season 
— in the new Century — but not having wintered well has 
upset that hope. 

I cannot find words sufficiently expressive to thank the 
old Club — and its members — for the many kindnesses 
received, and for the confidence that has been reposed 
in me. 

It is a source of intense gratification to me to think — 
and know that I have been associated with the '' Incog- 
nito Club ■" ever since it was first started in 1861 — when 
the late Mr. Pincott Hemming was its Secretary — and to 
call to mind, that since that time, the club, by the cease- 
less energy and watchfulness of his Brother — Sir Augustus 
W. L. Hemming — was brought forward and placed, in 
the prominent position, of being one of the most popular 
of the wandering clubs in England. I cannot enter 
further into the past, for the subject, is too depressing 
for me to dwell on, so therefore, I must at once return — 
again — my sincere and heartfelt thanks, and my last 
words shall be, the fervent hope, that "Health, Happi- 
ness and Prosperity " may attend all "Incogs " — and thus 
I conclude — with my well known exclamation, The ball 
is "over" gentlemen, — and respectfully subscribe — Your 
faithful servant, Robert Thoms 

308 



" Half Hours with the Worst Authors " 

Edward FitzGerald recommends two letters -<;:> <:::> 

(To Charles Keene) 

Friday [1880] 

MY DEAR KEENE, — . . . Beckford's Hiinting is 
an old friend of mine : excellently written ; such 
a relief (like Wesley and the religious men) to the 
Essayist style of the time. 

Do not fail to read the capital Squire's Letter in recom- 
mendation of a Stable-man, dated from Great Addington, 
Northants, 1734: of which some Httle is omitted after 
Edition I. ; which edition has also a Letter from Beckford's 
Huntsman about a wicked " Daufter,^' wholly omitted. 
This first Edition is a pretty small 4to 1781, with a 
Frontispiece by Cipriani ! . . . 

If you come down this Spring, but not before May, I 
will show you some of these things in a Book I have, 
which I might call ^' Half Hours with the Worst Authors," 
and very fine things by them. 

It would be the very best Book of the sort ever 
published, if published ; but no one would think so 
but myself, and perhaps you, and half a dozen more. 
If my Eyes hold out I will copy a delightful bit by way 
of return for your Ballad. 

I 

An old Squire (a friend of Peter Beckford) supplies a 
gentleman with an impartial character of John 
Gray 'niv ^^:^ ^q> ^;:> ^;:> ^Cy 

SIR, — Yours I received the 24th of this present instant, 
June, and, at your request, will give you an im- 
partial account of my man John Gray's character. He 
309 



A Character 

is a shoemaker, or cordwainer, which you please to call 
it, by trade, and now in our town ; he is following the 
carding business for every one that wants him ; he served 
his time at a town called Binstock, in Northamptonshire ; 
and from thence the Great Addington journeyman, to this 
occupation, as before mentioned, and used to come to my 
house, and found, by riding my horses to water, that he 
rode a horse pretty well ; which was not at all mistaken, 
for he rides a horse well : and he looks after a kennel of 
hounds very well, and finds a hare very well : he hath no 
judgment in hunting a pack of hounds now, though he 
rides well, he don't with discretion, for he don't know how 
to make the most of a horse ; but a very harey-starey 
fellow : will ride over a church if in his way, though he 
may prevent a leap by having a gap within ten yards of 
him ; and if you are not in the field with himself, when 
you are hunting to tutor him about riding, he will kill all 
the horses you have in the stable in one month, for he 
hath killed downright, and lamed so that they will never 
be fit for use, no more than five horses since he has 
hunted my hounds, which is two years and upwards ; he 
can talk no dog language to a hound ; he hath no voice ; 
speaks to a hound such as if his head were in a churn ; 
nor neither does he know how to draw a hound when 
they are at a loss, no more than a child of two years 
old. As to his honesty, I always found him honest till 
about a week ago. I sent my servant that I have now to 
fetch some sheep's feet from Mr. Stanjan, of Higham 
Ferrers, where Gray used to go for feet, and I always 
send my money by the man that brings the feet; and 
Stanjan told my man that I have now that I owed him 
money for feet ; and when the man came home he told 
me, and I went to Stanjan, and then I found the truth 
of the matter. Gray had kept the money in his hands, 
310 



Light 



Love 



and had never paid Stanjan : he had along with me 
once for a letter, in order for his character, to give him 
one, but I told him I could not give him a good one, so I 
would not write at all. Gray is a very great drunkard, 
can^t keep a penny in his pocket : a sad notorious lyar. 
If you send him upon a mile or two from Uppingham, he 
will get drunk, stay all day, and never come home until 
the middle of the night, or such time as he knows his 
master is in bed. He can nor will not keep any secret ; 
neither has he so much wit as other people, for the fellow 
is half a fool, for if you would have business done with 
expedition, if he once gets out of the town, or sight of 
you, shall see him no more, while the next morning he 
serves me so and so : you must expect the same if you 
hire him. I use you just as I would be used myself; if 
I desired a character of you of a servant, that I had 
designed to hire of yours, as to let you know the truth of 
every thing about him. 

I am, sir, your most humble servant to command. 

P.S. — He takes good care of his horses, with good 
looking after as to the dressing of them ; but if you 
don't take care, he will fill the manger full of corn, so 
that he will clog the horses, and ruin the whole stable of 
horses. 

Great Addington, //^;^^ 28, 1734 

II 

A huntsman informs his master of the misfortune of 
his daughter and the state of the hounds ^q> 

HONORED SIR, — I beg your honouers pardon a 
thousand times my wicked daufter is brout to bed 
this day God be praisd the child Is dead har mother 



Tom Moody 



nor I new nothing of it nor nobody as I can hear off tis 

that vile fellow R P at as he has acted 

such a Roges part she shall not have him by no means 
I am all most at my wits end I don't now what to do. 
I bag your honouer will Consider me and Let har stay 
in har place I don't hear but that all har fellow sarvants 
likes har very well I have been out with the hounds this 
day to ayer the frost is very bad the hounds are all pure 
well at present and horses shepard has had a misfortin 
with his mare she hung harself with the holter and throd 
har self and broak har neck and frac tard skul so we 
wus forsd to nock har In the head from your ever 
dutyful Humbel Sarvant. 

Wedtiesday evening 



George Forester (of Shropshire) gives Mr. Chambers 
an account of the death and funeral of Tom 
Moody, his great whipper-in ^;> ^;> ^^:> 

DEAR CHAMBERS, — On Tuesday last was buried 
poor Tom Moody, as good for rough and smooth 
as ever entered Wildman's Wood. He died brave and 
honest, as he lived — beloved by all, hated by none that 
ever knew him. I took his own orders as to his will, 
funeral, and every other thing that could be thought of. 

He died sensible and fully collected as ever man died 
— in short, died game to the last; for when he could 
hardly swallow, the poor old lad took the farewell glass 
for success to fox-hunting and his poor old master (as 
he termed it), for ever. I am his sole executor, and the 
bulk of his fortune he left to me — six and twenty shillings, 
real and bona fide sterling cash, free from all incum- 
312 



"Old Soul" 

brances, after every debt discharged to a farthing. Noble 
deeds for Tom, you'd say. The poor old ladies at the 
Ring of Bells are to have a knot each in remembrance 
of the poor old lad. 

Salop paper will show the whole ceremony of his 
burial, but for fear you should not see that paper — I 
send it to you as under. 

"Sportsmen, attend. — On Tuesday, 29th inst., was 
buried at Barrow, near Wenlock, Salop, Thomas Moody, 
a well-known whipper-in to G. Forester, Esq.'s fox-hounds 
for twenty years. He was carried to the grave by a 
proper number of earth-stoppers, and attended by many 
other sporting friends, who heartily mourned for him." 

Directly after the corpse, followed his old favourite 
horse (which he always called his " Old Soul "), thus 
accoutred: carrying his last fox's brush in front of 
his bridle, with his cap, whip, boots, spurs, and girdle 
across the saddle. The ceremony being over, he (by 
his own desire), had three clear, rattling view-halloos 
o'er his grave ; and thus ended the career of poor Tom, 
who lived and died an honest fellow, but alas! a very 
wet one. 

I hope you and your family are well, and you'll believe 
me as much yours, G. Forester 



Sergeant Dunt craves permission to fish a little in 
Col. Cartvvright's stream ^^> "v^ ^Ci^ ^^ 

Weedon Barracks, May 12, 1856 

HONOURABLE SIR, —A discharged sergeant of the 
Rifle Brigade, and one who had the honour of 
serving in the same company, and in more than one 
campaign under the command of the gallant and much 



A Favoured Stream 

lamented Captain Cartwright (killed in the Crimea), 
now makes bold to solicit of his honoured and bereaved 
parent a written permission to angle of an evening in 
that wealthy brook, which pursuing its way by Divine 
Will through your Honour's extensive domains, encourages 
and compensates the fertilising efforts of your Honour's 
tenants, adds a cheerful vivacity to the face of nature, 
seasonably serene, and furnishes of its finny population 
many impressive convictions of the kind, unceasing 
regard of our Great Creator in the various sustenance, 
delicate and invigorating, for the more worthy portion of 
His laborious creatures. 

Trusting, Sir, that indulgent time is reconciling you to 
the fate of my kind, deceased officer, your much-beloved 
and lamented son, and that your Honour will condescend 
to befriend the man whom that son so often befriended, 
I remain. Honourable Sir, with all due respect, your 
Honour's most humble and devoted servant and faithful 
soldier, John Dunt 

War Department, Weedon Barracks 

Captain Nelson tells Collingwood of his hopes and 
fears with regard to the French "^^^ '^::> -^li.' 

"Captain" — Leghorn Roads, August i, 1796 

MY DEAR COLL., — The Viceroy tells me that you 
are at Fiorenzo ; therefore I take my chance of this 
finding you. My date makes me think I am almost at 
Leghorn; soon I hope to be there in reality. Except 
1700 poor devils, all are gone to join the army. 
Sometimes I hope, at others despair of getting these 
starved Leghornese to cut the throats of the French 
crew. 

314 



An Idea for a Christian 

What an idea for a Christian! I hope there is a great 
latitude for us in the next world 

This blockade is complete, and we lie very snug in the 
North Road, as smooth as in a harbour. 

I have this moment received information that the post 
from Naples, which arrived to-day, has brought accounts 
that the truce with Naples finishes, and hostilities com- 
mence to-morrow. Pray God it may be so! With a most 
sincere wish for driving the French to the devil, your good 
health, an honourable peace, us safe at home again, I 
conclude by assuring you, my dear Collingwood, of my 
unalterable friendship and regard, and that I am, in the 
fullest sense of the words, yours most truly, 

Horatio Nelson 



315 



XV 

AN AUTOBIOGRAPHY 



Sir William Napier tells Lady Hester Stanhope the 
story of his life ^^:^ ^ ^=:> ^:> ^^^ 

Freshford, March 1839 

DEAR, DEAR LADY HESTER,— I wish from the 
bottom of my worn out heart that I could once 
more see and talk to you, the friend of my youth, when I 
was full of hope and cared little for the frowns and pains of 
the world. I too could tell of many things that would be 
strange, strange as belonging to that England which you 
and I once thought we knew, a proud and generous 
nation. It is not so now. Gold is an Englishman's god 
— gold and ostentation of gold ; for this they live and die. 
Generous sentiments are scarce, magnanimous actions 
scarcer. Napoleon was cast to perish on a rock under 
brutal insult ; you, the niece of Mr. Pitt, are subject to the 
persecutions of Lord Palmerston. Yet we are on the eve 
of great and terrible changes — I fear not for the better, 
because gold is still the moving power. But there are 
powerful passions excited. The working men of Eng- 
land, driven by long oppression to violence, are arming 
316 



Sir Charles Napier 

universally ; and as they have bad leaders blood will flow 
without utility. 

You demand a history of me and mine. It is painful 
to relate ; to me painful. My old mother died long ago, 
she was eighty four. Two of my sisters live, one 
unmarried ; the other has been for years married to Sir 
Henry Bunbury. His first wife was my wife's sister, his 
second my own sister ; he has four sons by his first mar- 
riage, none by his second. 

My eldest brother Charles has been twice married ; he 
has two very young children, girls. It was he you heard 
from in the Ionian Isles, where he has by his talent, 
activity, and good government, and the great public 
works he carried on. left a good name that will not be 
suffered to die away by the Greeks. His numerous 
wounds, seven and very severe, have not impaired his 
activity or whitened his head. This month he takes the 
command of the northern district of England ; it is a fear- 
ful command at this time, but he is modelled after your 
men of the/ar East. His book would entertain you much ; 
it is full of painful interest also, for he writes well and 
acts well ; nevertheless, I believe that it is not his book 
that you have heard of, but my book ; of that hereafter. 

My second brother George has lost his arm; like a 
brave man he lost it on the top of the breach at Ciudad 
Rodrigo in 1 812. He married a Scotch lady, and has three 
sons and two daughters, the youngest about 18; his 
wife died after the birth of the last child, and he, with a 
steadiness of sorrow and principle not common, devoted 
himself to the education of his children. He and Charles 
are generals and Knights of the Bath, and George is 
Governor of the Cape of Good Hope. Two of his sons 
are with him. His policy is to protect the CafFres from the 
gold-seeking rapacity of the English and Dutch settlers. 
317 



"Black Charles" 

He has a hard task, but his soul is honest and his heart 
true and firm as steel, and he has withal a good head. 

Richard did not pursue the law. He married a widow, 
a very clever and beautiful person ; his pursuits and 
his wife's are alike ; they have both great talent, great 
learning, have high and warm imaginations, delighting 
in poetry and noble writing, and he is by nature a poet 
himself; yet their particular pursuit, strange to say, is 
political economy, and I think it is not unlikely he may 
some day publish a book on that subject. 

Henry, the youngest of us, is a post captain of the navy. 
He married his cousin. He was rich, happy, and his wife 
good, affectionate, and one of the most lovely of God's 
creatures. Alas! she died suddenly about two years ago, 
leaving him with four children, a broken-hearted miser- 
able man. He devotes himself to his children ; their 
mother was thirty when she died. He has written a 
History of Florence, but it is not yet published. 

What now shall I tell you? My own tale ? I like it not, 3'et 
I will tell it to you and truly ; but first permit me to join 
to my brother's history that of our cousin Charles, " Black 
Charles," they call him. He is not a brother, but I claim 
a place for him because he is a great man, though a 
strange one. A life of daring and enterprise in our navy as 
a captain created him a name which attracted the Portu- 
guese Emperor Don Pedro's attention. Black Charles 
was offered the command of his fleet; he accepted it, 
and in one action, against the most overpowering advan- 
tages on the enemy's side, decided the fate of Portugal. 
He is now going out in command of the Powerful^ 74, to 
the Levant, and you may perhaps hear of him again ; a 
rough black diamond, but a sure hand in war. Thus 
you see that we have not let our name sink in the world, 
and yet we have been honest, and what has been a sore 
318 



Charles Fox's Daughter 

stumbling block in our way, independent ; always opposed 
to the powers that be, and yet able to force our way to 
notice though not to riches. I would willingly dwell 
longer upon his exploits, but they must have reached 
you even on Mount Lebanon. 

Now again for myself. Why did you ask me? I must 
rip up old sorrows and probe wounds that have never 
healed. I am a broken man ; broken, though not bent, 
— the world has failed to do that ; and I can still make 
my enemies bew^are of treading on me. But I will tell 
you all truly ; I have played my part and continue to do 
so in the world. 

It has been in my power to raise a civil war, and 
it may be so again, but I abhor such a proceeding. 
Yet I am courted and feared without reason ; for sorrow 
and pain, continual sorrow and continual pain, have 
almost if not quite unsettled my reason ; at least 
I am conscious that I had another mind once. I 
do not think I was married when you left England ; 
my wife was the daughter of Charles Fox. She lives 
to take care of me when I want care, and she is a 
person capable of great things ; fortitude and judg- 
ment, and energy mental and bodily, she possesses in an 
extraordinary degree. When I married I was sanguine 
and confident that I could go far in the world. Secretly 
I thought God had given me the head and heart of a 
warrior, and my body was then of iron. Well! I won 
my spurs honourably. Three decorations and two steps 
of rank I gained in the field of battle. Wellington gave 
them to me; and I am a Companion of the Bath, — no 
great thing; but I could have safely rested my claim upon 
the testimony of my soldiers. Ah! those soldiers, the 
few that are now living are poor and miserable, for 
England despises her former defenders. My regiment, 
319 



A Crichton 

the 43rd, was one of the three regiments that formed the 
Light Division, always in contact with the enemy ; those 
three regiments were avowedly the best that England 
ever had under arms ; this is no idle boast ; war was 
better known, the art more advanced, under Napoleon 
than in any age of the world before, and the French 
veterans, those victors of a thousand battles, never 
could stand an instant before my gallant men. Curse 
on the liars, the cowardly calumniators, who have told 
you that Irishmen are cowards! they are equal to the 
English in bravery, superior to them in hardihood of 
sufferance and in devotion to their officers in the hour 
of trouble ; and they are superior to the Scotch in every- 
thing, and yet there are very good soldiers among the 
Scotch ; I like them not, but I will not belie them. 

Was not mine a fair stand for distinction? Peace 
came, and I am a colonel still! I had no money; and 
younger officers, some of them bad, were ready to 
purchase over my head ; others were thrust without 
money over me. I had gained the brevet rank, but I 
could not gain the regimental rank ; the first was to 
be got on the field, and I got it ; the second was to be 
got by money or favour, and I had neither, so I went on 
half-pay, and tried to still the gnawing of the worm by 
occupation of a different kind. I painted in oils, and 
was elected a member of the Royal Academy. I 
modelled in clay, and Chantrey, the first of modern 
sculptors, proposed and got me elected as sculptor in 
the Savants' Club, called the Athenaeum. But the worm 
gnawed still. I wrote reviews, and I was successful : my 
first was to defend Sir John Moore. To you I need not 
speak of that great and heroic man, nor of his wrongs. 
Southey wrote a history of the Peninsular War ; it was 
smooth and clear in style, but nerveless as the author's 
320 



Justice to France 

mind, except where his political rancour broke out to 
destroy Sir John Moore's reputation and to calumniate 
the French army. For the latter I cared only as it was 
disgraceful to my. country to malign a brave though 
vanquished enemy ; but for the first I felt as you would 
have felt. I was going to write a commentary, but I 
soon saw that to beat the false history I must write a 
true one ; the task was formidable, but I have done it ; 
I have beaten the calumniator and established my History 
in the world's good opinion. I have done more ; without 
yielding one jot of England's glory I have by just and 
fair admission of the prowess of France obtained the 
public assent of the French Generals to the truth of my 
relation ; I have thus solved the difficult problem of 
recording the defeats of a vain, proud, fiery, and learned 
people, without losing their approbation ; I have obtained 
the testimony to the glory of the British arms, and thus 
placed the latter upon a rock. Many enemies in England 
I have created by this ; I should have doubted the value 
of my work if it had not been so. Truth must be offen- 
sive to many. But I have also many supporters, because 
truth is powerful ; and though my History wants one 
volume still to complete it, the first five volumes have 
been already translated into French, into Spanish in 
South America, and reprinted in North America ; it is 
also translated, or being translated, into Italian and 
German ; and I have been elected a member of Military 
Sciences in Sweden. 

My English enemies are virulent and numerous, but I 
have met them all, and hitherto triumphed, and I will 
meet them as long as I can speak, write, or pull a trigger. 
I like not republicanism : I desire to see men of all 
classes as God designed them to be, free in thought and 
unabashed in mien, but virtuous and obedient to the just 

Y 321 



The Duke of Wellington 

institutions of society. I do not spurn at kings and nobles, 
but I like not that they should spurn at me. Would that 
we had a great man ! Changes are at hand ; the masses 
are in movement, but there is none to guide them, and 
they will clash for mischief. 

I am well pleased to do some good, but what can a 
man do who dare not encounter a shower of rain lest 
he should lose the use of his limbs for six months.? 
Where is Wellington at this crisis? you will say. Alas! 
he is great by the head, not by the heart, and that is only 
half the greatness required. He is of commanding in- 
tellect, commanding courage, commanding honesty; but 
he despises the people, has too many prejudices opposed 
to their feelings, and they hate and fear him. He cannot 
work with them because he will not work for them. The 
rest are nothing. I have, as I have told you, great 
influence with the people, but it will not last ; I can do 
evil, but not much good ; I know well what to oppose, 
but not what to assist, for there is much evil striving on 
all sides, and my worn-out body will not allow me to 
engage in anything requiring exertion of limb. Do not 
mistake me or imagine that I mistake myself. I do not 
suppose myself a great man, but I have certain talents 
and knowledge which have given me a power in the 
present conjuncture that might be turned to good or bad 
if I had bodily strength, and I have it not. Well! 
enough of this matter. 

I strive to put off the tale of my sorrows as long as 
possible. I have had ten children ; seven still live, six 
girls and, a boy, but he is deaf and dumb. Three girls 
died — the first young, very young ; it was written ; I 
wept for her, and so it ended. The next died at five 
years old. She was also deaf and dumb, and that caused 
her death. I will not tell you how ; I cannot ; but twelve 
322 



. " The good Pitt blood " 

years ago she died, and I have not been as I should be 
since. Should I tell you how more than human her 
beauty was, and how exquisite her intelligence, notwith- 
standing her deafness, you would not believe me, but 
though I am at times insane I am not doting. Six years 
after her death my eldest child was torn from me by 
consumption ; she was fair and joyous as the day, tall 
and beautiful, strong of heart, and clear of head ; yet a 
few short months sufficed to send her at the age of 
eighteen from the admiration of the world, to her grave. 
I would tell you more about my dear children, only I 
cannot. I have seven still. . . . 

Lord Chatham, the Lord Chatham''s Correspondence is 
being published by his grand-nephews, Captain Pringle 
of the Guards and his brother. Two volumes are out, 
but as yet there is not much interest attached to them, 
so I suppose the valuable papers are reserved for the 
other volumes; when I say interest, I mean proportion- 
ably to the man's fame, for there is curious reading in 
them. Pringle I have had some dealings with, and I 
think, judging from his correspondence (for I have not 
seen him) there is a vein of the good Pitt blood running 
through him. Your men of the East are, I believe, 
superior individually to the men of the West, but each 
man stalks through the world like a lion ; they do not 
herd together, nor work together, and like lions they live 
and die and are forgotten. The horse is a better animal 
than the lion. You love the brute creation, and so do I, and 
I love you that you do love them. The brute is of the same 
essence as man, — an essence, however, more restricted, 
confined by the inferior organisation of their bodies, 
therefore more condensed and honest. What are we of 
human species? Angels or devils, or a compound of 
323 



" The glorious Privilege " 

both ? There must be I think two governing principles, 
God and demon, and we partake of both. This doctrine 
is Eastern, and I think it more reasonable than any 
other. 

I wonder whether you will like my History? It is no 
whining affair. There is much in it, that you would not 
like, but nothing I think that would lessen your friendship 
for me ; you might be angry, but you would not cease to 
be my friend, and surely there is nothing that you could 
say or do, however passionate at the moment, that would 
hinder me from being your friend, esteeming and rever- 
encing you as much as I do now and ever have done. The 
time I passed with you at Mr. Pitt's home at Putney, and 
the few short hasty periods in which [I had] the happi- 
ness of being received by you after his death (for me at 
least they were few, too few, and too short), are among 
the moments of my past life remembered most vividly 
and fondly. 

This letter runs on. How shall I send it to you? I 
think I shall be able to transmit it officially, for I have still 
some friends at court who can separate the politician 
from the man. 

Do not start at my consideration for your pocket ; you 
live in the East, but I live in England where money is 
the great god ; I hate their god, — but I worship some- 
times lest my impiety should be observed and punished. 
Yes, I think of money. Is not poverty despised, wronged, 
insulted? and shall I not tremble lest my good, my 
innocent, my beautiful girls, and my helpless boy, should 
be consigned to such horrors? My life is not worth a 
year's purchase ; who shall protect them after my death 
if they be poor? For their sakes I live; for their sakes 
I gather money by my labours ; and for them I keep it 
as well as my nature will allow me. Ah! you are a living 
324 



A Woman's champion 

example of the generosity of Englishmen towards help- 
less women. 



Your nephew, Lord Mahon, is an author, and in his 
book sneered at mine, went out of his w^ay to say that it 
was the best French history of the war ; this he thought 
smart, but I replied I had always thought the doing 
justice to [a] vanquished enemy was thoroughly English 
until my Lord Mahon assured me it was wholly French. 
Was I right? I tell you this that you may know me; 
I am not changed in feeling or sentiment, but you should 
know what I have said or done that might offend you, 
or I should be going to you under false colours. 

Much do I like your Beni Omaya, if they be tiTily 
heroic; but beauty and courage are only gifts, not virtues. 
Are they compassionate ? Are they just ? Are they 
mild or cruel to their vanquished foes? Are they gentle 
or harsh to women and children ? Do they admit women 
to have rights? Do they govern them by their affections 
on by their fears ?^ Do they make chattels of their per- 
sons, and kill them in their tyrannical jealousy? If they 
do they aVe not heroes for me. Women are gentle, and 
should be free human beings, and the peculiar guardians 
of children, the most helpless and the most beautiful of 
God's creation; there can be no virtue, no generosity, 
where they are oppressed. I know nothing so degrading 
to England, as the treatment of women and children. 
There is a factory system grown up in England since you 
left it, the most horrible that the imagination can conceive. 
Factories they are called, but they are in realities /ii://s, 
where hundreds of children are killed yearly in protracted 
torture, and that cotton lords may extract gold from their 
bones, and marrow, and blood. Patience! patience! There 
will be a day of reckoning for all things ; it approaches. 
325 



The true Tory- 
Farewell, dear Lady Hester. God knows whether I shall 
ever hear from you or write to you again, but never 
believe that I have not a true and deep feeling for you. 

W. Napier 

April loth. — I have delayed sending this letter for a 
fortnight, partly to obtain a surer mode of conveyance ; 
in which I have succeeded through my friend Lord 
Fitzroy-Somerset, a true Tory of your school, that is to 
say, an upright honest man, and a thorough gentleman, 
both in his private and public proceedings. Principally, 
however, I have waited to procure some information for 
you about the estates and persons you mentioned in 
your letter. 



326 



XVI 

FRIENDSHIP AND MORE 

Marjorie Fleming sends her mother her love 



^:i^ 



MY DEAR LITTLE MAMA, — I was truly happy 
to hear that you were all well. We are sur- 
rounded with measles at present on every side, for the 
Herons got it, and Isabella Heron was near Death's 
Door, and one night her father lifted her out of bed, 
and she fell down as they thought lifeless. Mr. Heron 
said, "That lassie's deed noo " — " Pm no deed yet." 
She then threw up a big worm nine inches and a half 
long. I have begun dancing, but am not very fond of it, 
for the boys strikes and mocks me. — I have been another 
night at the dancing; I like it better. I will write to 
you as often as I can; but I am afraid not every week. 
I long for you with the longings of a child to embrace 
you — to fold you in my arms. I respect you with all the 
respect due to a mother. You don't know how I love 
you. So I shall remain, your loving child, 

M. Fleming 

327 



Swift and Pope's dear Patty 
The Dean in Dublin '^:> ^^ ^:> ^:> ^^ 

(To Mrs. Martha Blount in town) 

Dublin, February 29, 1727-28 

DEAR PATTY, — I am told you have a mind to 
receive a letter from me, which is a very undecent 
declaration in a young lady, and almost a confession that 
you have a mind to write to me ; for as to the fancy of 
looking on me as a man sans consequence, it is what 
I will never understand. I am told likewise you grow 
every day younger, and more a fool, which is directly 
contrary to me, who grow wiser and older, and at this 
rate we shall never agree. I long to see you a London 
lady, where you are forced to wear whole clothes, and 
visit in a chair, for which you must starve next summer 
at Petersham, with a mantua out at the sides ; and spunge 
once a week at our house, without ever inviting us in a 
whole season to a cow-heel at home. I wish you would 
bring Mr. Pope over with you when you come ; but we 
will leave Mr. Gay to his beggars and his operas till he 
is able to pay his club. How will you pass this summer 
for want of a Squire to Ham-Common and Walpole's 
Lodge? for as to Richmond Lodge and Marble Hill, 
they are abandoned as much as Sir Spencer Compton : 
and Mr. Schabe's coach, that used to give you so many 
a set-down, is wheeled off to St. James\ You must be 
forced to get a horse, and gallop with Mrs. Jansen and 
Miss Bedier, your greatest happiness is, that you are out 
of the chiding of Mrs. Howard and the Dean ; but I 
suppose Mr. Pope is so just as to pay our arrears, and 
that you edify as much by him as by us, unless you are 
so happy that he now looks upon you as reprobate and 
a cast-away, of which I think he hath given me some 
328 



" The six lines in a hook " 

hints. However, I would advise you to pass this summer 
at Kensington, where you will be near the court, and 
out of his jurisdiction; where you will be teased with no 
lectures of gravity and morality, and where you will 
have no other trouble than to get into the mercers^ books, 
and take up a hundred pounds of your principal for 
Quadrille. Monstrous, indeed, that a fine lady, in the 
prime of life and gaiety, must take up with an anti- 
quated Dean, an old gentlewoman of four-score, and a 
sickly poet. I will stand by my dear Patty against the 
world, if Teresa beats you for your good, and I will buy 
her a fine whip for the purpose. Tell me, have you been 
confined to your lodging this winter for want of chair- 
hire? 

Do you know that this unlucky Mr. Delaney came last 
night to the Deanery, and being denied, without my 
knowledge, is gone to England this morning, and so I 
must send this by the post. I bought your opera to-day 
for sixpence, so small printed that it will spoil my eyes. 
I ordered you to send me your edition, but now you may 
keep it till you get an opportunity. 

Patty, I will tell you a blunder. I am writing to Mr. 
Gay, and had almost finished the letter, but by mistake 
I took up this instead of it, and so the six lines in a hook 
are all to him, and therefore you must read them to him 
for I will not be at the trouble to write them over again. 
My greatest concern in the matter is, that I am afraid I 
continue in love with you, which is bad after near six 
months' absence. I hope you have done with your rash 
and other little disorders, and that I shall see you a fine, 
young, healthy, plump lady, and, if Mr. Pope chides you, 
threaten him that you will turn heretic. Adieu! dear 
Patty, and believe me to be one of your truest friends 
and humblest servants ; and that, since I can never live 
329 



Temptings to Dublin 

in England, my greatest happiness would be to have 
you and Mr. Pope condemned, during my life, to live in 
Ireland, he at the Deanery, and you, for reputation sake, 
just at next door, and I will give you eight dinners 
a week, and a whole half dozen of pint bottles of good 
French wine at your lodgings, a thing you could never 
expect to arrive at, and every year a suit of fourteen- 
penny stuff, that should not be worn out at the right 
side ; and a chair costs but sixpence a job ; and you 
shall have Catholicity as much as you please, and 
the Catholic Dean of St. Patrick's, as old again as I, 
for your Confessor. Adieu again, dear Patty, 

Jon. Swift 



Edward FitzGerald replies at once ^^ ^:::v ^:^ 

Geldestone Hall, September 9, 1834 

DEAR ALLEN, — I have really nothing to say, and 
I am ashamed to be sending this third letter all 
the way from here to Pembrokeshire for no earthly 
purpose : but I have just received yours : and you will 
know how very welcome all your letters are to me when 
you see how the perusal of this one had excited me to 
such an instant reply. It has indeed been a long time 
coming: but it is all the more delicious. Perhaps you 
canH imagine how wistfully I have looked for it : how, 
after a walk, my eyes have turned to the table, on 
coming into the room, to see it. Sometimes I have been 
tempted to be angry with you : but then I thought I 
was sure you would come a hundred miles to serve me, 
though you were too lazy to sit down to a letter. I 
suppose that people who are engaged in serious ways 
of life, and are of well filled minds, don't think much 
330 



The noble Spectator 

about the interchange of letters with any anxiety : but 
I am an idle fellow, of a very ladylike turn of sentiment : 
and my friendships are more like loves, I think. Your 
letter found me reading the " Merry Wives of Windsor'' 
too: I had been laughing aloud to myself: think what 
another coat of happiness came over my former good 
mood. You are a dear good fellow, and I love you with 
all my heart and soul. 

The truth is I was anxious about this letter, as I 
really did not know whether you were married or not — 
or ill — I fancied you might be anything, or any- 
where. . . . 

As to reading I have not done much. I am going 
through the Spectator-, which people think nowadays a 
poor book : but I honour it much. 

What a noble kind of Journal it was ! There is cer- 
tainly a good deal of what may be called '••////,'' but 
there is a great deal of wisdom, I believe, only it is 
couched so simply that people can't believe it to be real 
absolute wisdom. 

The little book you speak of I will order and buy. 
I heard from Thackeray, who is just upon the point of 
going to France ; indeed, he may be there by this time. 
I shall miss him much. . . . 

Farewell my dearest fellow. 

You have made me very happy to hear from you : and 
to know that all is so well with you. 

Believe me to be your ever affectionate friend, 

E. FitzGerald 



331 



Annihilation and Peace 

Lord Nelson anticipates to Collingwood the battle 
of Trafalgar ^^ ^^:^ ^:> ^:> -^^ 

October g, 1805 

I SEND you Captain Blackwood's letter: and as I 
hope Weazle has joined, he will have five frigates 
and a brig. They surely cannot escape us. I wish we 
could get a fine day. I send you my plan of attack, as 
far as a man dare venture to guess at the very uncertain 
position the enemy may be found in ; but, my dear 
friend, it is to place you perfectly at ease respecting 
my intentions, and to give full scope to your judgment 
for carrying them into effect. We can, my dear Coll, 
have no little jealousies : we have only one great object 
in view, — that of annihilating our enemies, and getting 
a glorious peace for our country. No man has more 
confidence in another than I have in you : and no man 
will render your services more justice than your very 
old friend Nelson and Bronte 



Dr. Johnson makes Miss Susannah Thrale happy <::^ 

[Adoia July 5, 1783] 

DEAREST MISS SUSY,— When you favoured me 
with your letter, you seemed to be in want of 
materials to fill it, having met with no great adventures 
either of peril or delight, nor done nor suffered any thing 
out of the common course of life. 

When you have lived longer, and considered more, 
you will find the common course of life very fertile of 
observation and reflection. Upon the common course 
of life must our thoughts and our conversation be gener- 
ally employed. Our general course of life must denomi- 
332 



Ingredients of a Letter 

nate us wise or foolish, happy or miserable ; if it is well 
regulated, we pass on prosperously and smoothly ; as it 
is neglected, we live in embarrassment, perplexity, and 
uneasiness. 

Your time, my love, passes, I suppose in devotion, 
reading, work, and company. Of your devotions, in which 
I earnestly advise you to be very punctual, you may 
not perhaps think it proper to give me an account ; and 
of work unless I understood it better, it will be of no 
great use to say much ; but books and company will 
always supply you with materials for your letters to me, 
as I shall always be pleased to know what you are read- 
ing, and with what you are pleased ; and shall take great 
delight in knowing what impression new modes or new 
characters make upon you, and to observe wdth what 
attention you distinguish the tempers, dispositions, and 
abilities of your companions. A letter may be always 
made out of the books of the morning or talk of the 
evening : and any letters from you, my dearest, will be 
welcome to your, etc. 

Lord Collingwood writes to Lady Collingvvood of his 
weariness of the sea and the education of their 
children •<;:ix "^^ ^^^ "^^ ^^> ^^^ 

Ocean, /u?ie i6, 1806 

THIS day, my love, is the anniversary of our marriage, 
and I wish you many happy returns of it. If ever 
we have peace, I hope to spend my latter days amid my 
family, which is the only sort of happiness I can enjoy — 
after this life of labour, to retire to peace and quietness 
is all I look for in the world. Should we decide to 
change the place of our dwelling, our route would of 
333 



The Sailor Home from the Sea 

course be to the southward of Morpeth ; but then I 
should be for ever regretting those beautiful views, which 
are nowhere to be exceeded ; and even the rattling of 
that old waggon that used to pass our door at 6 o"'clock 
in a winter's morning had its charms. The fact is, when- 
ever I think how I am to be happy again, my thoughts 
carry me back to Morpeth, where, out of the fuss and 
parade of the world, surrounded by those I loved most 
dearly, and who loved me, I enjoyed as much happiness 
as my nature is capable of. Many things that I see in the 
world give me a distaste for the finery of it. The great 
knaves are not like those poor unfortunates, who, driven 
perhaps to distress from accidents which they could not 
prevent, or at least not educated in principles of honour 
and honesty, are hanged for some little thievery ; while a 
knave of education and high breeding, who brandishes 
his honour in the eyes of the world, would rob a state to 
its ruin. For the first, I feel pity and compassion ; for 
the latter, abhorrence and contempt : they are the tenfold 
vicious. 

Have you read — but what am I more interested about, 
is your sister with you, and is she well and happy? Tell 
her — God bless her ! — I wish I were with you, that we 
might have a good laugh. God bless me ! I have 
scarcely laughed these three years. I am here, with a 
very reduced force, having been obliged to make detach- 
ments to all quarters. This leaves me weak, while the 
Spaniards -and French within are daily gaining strength. 
They have patched and pieced until they have now a very 
considerable fleet. Whether they will venture out I do 
not know ; if they come, I have no doubt we shall do an 
excellent deed, and then I will bring them to England 
myself. 

How do the dear girls go on ? I would have them 
334 



Education for Girls 

taught geometry, which is of all sciences in the world the 
most entertaining : it expands the mind more to the know- 
ledge of all things in nature, and better teaching to distin- 
guish between truths and such things as have the appearance 
of being truths, yet are not, than any other. 

Their education, and the proper cultivation of the 
sense which God has given them, are the objects on 
which my happiness most depends. To inspire them 
with a love of everything that is honourable and virtuous, 
though in rags, and with contempt for vanity in em- 
broidery, is the way to make them the darlings of my 
heart. They should not only read, but it requires a 
careful selection of books; nor should they ever have 
access to two at the same time ; but when a subject is 
begun, it should be finished before anything else is 
undertaken. How would it enlarge their minds, if they 
should acquire a sufficient knowledge of mathematics 
and astronomy to give them an idea of the beauty 
and wonders of the creation ! I am persuaded that the 
generality of people, and particularly fine ladies, only 
adore God because they are told it is proper and the 
fashion to go to church ; but I would have my girls gain 
such knowledge of the works of the creation, that they 
may have a fixed idea of the nature of that Being who 
could be the Author of such a world. Whenever they 
have that, nothing on this side the moon will give them 
much uneasiness of mind. I do not mean that they 
should be Stoics, or want the common feelings for the 
sufferings that the flesh is heir to ; but they would then 
have a source of consolation for the worst that could 
happen. 

Tell me how do the trees which I planted thrive ? 
Is there shade under the oaks for a comfortable summer 
seat ? Do the poplars grow at the walk, and does the 
335 



"A Lady dear" 

wall of the terrace stand firm? My bankers tell me that 
all my money in their hands is exhausted by fees on the 
peerage, and that I am in their debt, which is a new epoch 
in my life, for it is the first time I was ever in debt since I 
was a midshipman. Here I get nothing ; but then my ex- 
penses are nothing, and I do not want it, particularly now 
that I have got my knives, forks, teapot, and other things 
you were so kind as to send me. 



Thackeray drops into verse to Mrs. Brookfield •^:> 

' ' I ^IS one o'clock, the boy from Punch is sitting in the 

J- passage here, 
It used to be the hour of lunch at Portman Street, near 

Portman Squeer. 
O ! stupid little printers' boy, I cannot write, my head is 

queer. 
And all my foolish brains employ in thinking of a lady 

dear. 
It was but yesterday, and on my honest word it seems a 

year — 
As yet that pleasure was not gone, as yet I saw that lady 

dear — 
She's left us now, my boy, and all this town, this life is 

blank and drear. 
Thou printers' devil in the hall, didst ever see my lady 

dear? 
You'd understand, you little knave, I think, if you could 

only see her. 
Why now I look so glum and grave for losing of this lady [ 

dear. 
A lonely man I am in life, my business is to joke and 

jeer, 

336 



A Swiss Cantab 

A lonely man without a wife, God took from me a lady 

dear. 
A friend I had, and at his side, — the story dates from 

seven long year — 
One day I found a blushing bride, a tender lady kind 

and dear ! 
They took me in, they pitied me, they gave me kindly 

words and cheer, 
A kinder welcome who shall see, than yours, O ! friend 

and lady dear? 

{The rest is wanting) 

M. de Bonstetten describes Cambridge, and Mr. Gray 
describes M. de Bonstetten <^ ^^:> ^:> 

(To the Rev. Norton Nicholls) 

Cambridge, /^;/?^^;7 6, 1770 

HENCE, vain deluding joys, is our motto here, 
written on every feature, and hourly spoken by 
every solitary chapel bell; so that decently you can't 
expect no other but a very grave letter. I really beg 
your pardon to wrap up my thoughts in so smart a dress, 
as in a quarto sheet. I know they should appear in a 
folio leaf, but the ideas themselves shall look so solemn 
as to belie their dress. Though I wear not yet the black 
gown, and am only an inferior priest in the temple of 
meditation, yet my countenance is already consecrated. 
I never walk but with even steps and musing gait, and 
looks conversing with the skies ; and unfold my wrinkles 
only when I see Mr. Gray, or think of you. Then, not- 
withstanding all your learnings and knowledge, I feel 
in such occasions that I have a heart, which you know 
z 337 



Strenuous Cambridge 

is as some others, a quite profane thing to carry under 
a black gown. 

I am in a hurry from morning till evening. At eight 
o'clock I am roused by a young square cap, with whom 
I follow Satan through chaos and night. He explained 
me in Greek and Latin, the sweet reluctant amorous 
delays of our grandmother Eve. We finish our travels 
in a copious breakfast of muffins and tea. Then appear 
Shakespeare and old Linneus struggling together as two 
ghosts would do for a damned soul. Sometimes the one 
gets the better, sometimes the other. Mr. Gray, whose 
acquaintance is my greatest debt to you, is so good as 
to show me Macbeth, and all witches, beldams, ghosts 
and spirits, whose language I never could have under- 
stood without his interpretation. I am now endeavouring 
to dress all those people in a French dress, which is a 
very hard labour. 

I am afraid to take a room, which Mr. Gray shall keep 
much better. So I stop my ever rambling pen. My 
respectful compliments to Mrs. Nicholls. Only remember 
that you have nowhere a better or more grateful friend 
than your de Bonstetten 

I loos'd Mr. Wheeler's letter and his direction. 

I never saw such a boy; our breed is not made on 
this model. He is busy from morning to night, has no 
other amusement than that of changing one study for 
another; likes nobody that he sees here, and yet wishes 
to stay longer, though he has passed a whole fortnight 
with us already. His letter has had no correction 
whatever, and is prettier by half than English. 

Would not you hazard your journal: I want to 
see what you have done this summer, though it would 
be safer and better to bring it yourself, methinks ! 
338 



Corporal's Devotion 

Complimens respectueux h Mad. Nichole, et a notre 
aimable Cousine la Sposa. T. G. 



Corporal William Follows, 43rd Regiment, sends 
greeting to Colonel William Napier ^^ ^^> 

Fermoy, August 26, 1820 

HONNORED SIR, — I most humbly hope your 
honnor will not deem it too presumtive of your 
servant Wm. Follows in addressing a few lines with my 
sincerest thanks for the many benefits and indulgences 
receved from your honnor. It was greatly talked of 
your coming to join the Regiment again, but I am very 
sorry and so is a great many — indeed most of the 
Regiment that it is not so. I hear the men when they 
would see the mare, wishing that your honnor was back 
again, but she is gone too, so that there is nothing to 
remind them of you now but your honnor's deeds of 
justice and vaulor, witch will always be thought of by 
them that noes you. I hope Sir you will be pleased to 
give my duty to Mrs. Napier and i hope you will excuse 
my ignorant presumtive manner of writing, in witch i 
am very indolent, and is not able with my pen to express 
the warm sentiments of my mind towards your 
benevealent family whom everybody respecks. I have 
been corporal better than two years, and I was Lance- 
Sergeant but got reduced for a little misconduct, to 
Corporal again, but I am verry comfortable with my wife 
and child. Your honnor will undoubtedly think me very 
troublesum but I hope you will impute it to the weak- 
ness of your ever most humble and duty full servant, 

Wm. Follows, Corpl. 
43rd Regt. Lt. Infantry 
339 



A Letter of Sympathy 

An Indian pupil sympathises with Sir George Grove 
after an accident ^v:> ^^::> ^> ^^^ ^;:> 

[1886] 

KIND LAT SAHIB SALAMAT, — I was so very sad 
when our darling Miss Sahiba (Miss Campbell) 
told me that a cab had run over you, but we hope that 
you are quite well now, and we think that God must have 
sent flying down His shining angels to guard and take care 
of you from getting more hurt ! We often think of your 
kind words to us and of your smiles the first day we saw 
you, and we pray that God may let us see your kind face 
again. Now I must say Saldm noble Ldt Sahib. May 
God put a garland of love round your neck. — I remain 
your grateful little Indian friend, HAfizan 



Thomas Gray unlocks his heart to Richard West ^:^ 

WHEN you have seen one of my days, you have 
seen a whole year of my life ; they go round and 
round like the blind horse in the mill, only he has the 
satisfaction of fancying he makes a progress and gets 
some ground ; my eyes are open enough to see the same 
dull prospect, and to know that having made four-and- 
twenty steps more, I shall be just where I was ; I may, 
better than most people, say my life is but a span, were 
I not afraid lest you should not believe that a person so 
short-lived could write even so long a letter as this ; in 
short, I believe I must not send you the history of my 
own time, till I can send you that also of the reformation. 
However, as the most undeserving people in the world 
must sure have the vanity to wish somebody had a regard 
for them, so I need not wonder at my own, in being 
340 



Old Friends 

pleased that you care about me. You need not doubt, 
therefore, of having a first row in the front box of my 
little heart, and I believe you are not in danger of being 
crowded there ; it is asking you to an old play, indeed, 
but you will be candid enough to excuse the whole piece 
for the sake of a few tolerable lines. 

Cambridge, May 8, 1736 



Dean Swift is anxious for Mr. Pope's health -<:^ '^b^ 

February 7, 1735-6 

IT is some time since I dined at the Bishop of Berry's, 
where Mr. Secretary Cary told me with great con- 
cern that you were taken very ill. I have heard nothing 
since ; only I have continued in great pain of mind ; yet 
for my own sake and the world's more than for yours ; 
because I well know how little you value life both as a 
philosopher and a Christian, particularly the latter, 
wherein hardly one in a million of us heretics can equal 
you. 

If you are well recovered, you ought to be reproached 
for not putting me especially out of pain, who could not 
bear the loss of you ; although we must be for ever 
distant as much as if I were in the grave, for which my 
years and continual indisposition are preparing me every 
season. I have staid too long from pressing you to give 
me some ease by an account of your health. Pray do 
not use me so ill any more. I look upon you as an 
estate from which I receive my best annual rents, 
although I am never to see it. Mr. Tickell was at the 
same meeting under the same real concern ; and so were 
a hundred others of this town who had never seen you. 
I read to the Bishop of Derry the passage in your letter 
341 



The Dean deserted 

which concerned him, and his Lordship expressed his 
thankfulness in a manner that became him. He is 
esteemed here as a person of learning, and conversa- 
tion, and humanity, but he is beloved by all people. He 
is a most excessive Whig but without any appearing 
rancour, and his idol is King William ; besides, ^3,000 a 
year is an invincible svveetner! 

I have nobody now left but you. Pray be so kind to out- 
live me ; and then die as soon as you please ; but without 
pain ; and let us meet in a better place, if my religion 
will permit, but rather my virtue, although much unequal 
to yours. Pray, let my Lord Bathurst know how much I 
love him. I still insist on his remembering me, although 
he is too much in the world to honour an absent friend with 
his letters. My state of health is not to boast of; ray 
giddiness is more or less too constant ; I sleep ill, and 
have a poor appetite. I can as easily write a poem in 
the Chinese language as my own. I am as fit for 
matrimony as invention ; and yet I have daily schemes 
for innumerable essays in prose, and proceed sometimes 
to no less than half a dozen lines, which the next morning 
become waste paper. What vexes me most is, that my 
female friends, who could bear me very well a dozen 
years ago, have now forsaken me ; although I am not so 
old in proportion to them as I formerly was : which I 
can prove by arithmetic, for then I was double their age, 
which now I am not. 

Pray, put me out of fear as soon as you can, about that 
ugly report of your illness ; and let me know who this 
Cheseldon is, that hath so lately sprung up in your favour. 

Give me also some account of your neighbour (Lord 
Bolingbroke), who wrote to me from Bath. 

I hear he resolves to be strenuous for the taking of 
the test ; which grieves me extremely from all the un- 
342 



" Dear, lovely Mrs. Scurlock " 

prejudiced reasons I was ever able to form, and against 
the maxims of all wise Christian governments, and which 
always had some established religion, leaving at best a 
toleration to others. Farewell, my dearest friend : ever 
and upon every account that can create friendship and 
esteem. 

Dick Steele in chains -^^^ ^^ ^^> ^^:> ^^:> 

I 

Smith Street, Westminster, 1707 

MADAM, — I lay down last night with your image in 
my thoughts, and have awakM this morning in 
the same contemplation. The pleasing transport with 
which Fme delighted, has a sweetnesse in it attended w^ith 
a train often thousand soft desires, anxieties, and cares; 
the day arises on my hopes with new brightnesse ; youth, 
beauty and innocence are the charming objects that steal 
me from myself, and give me joys above the reach of 
ambition, pride or glory. Beleive me, fair one, to throw 
myself at your feet is giving my self the highest blisse I 
know on Earth. Oh hasten ye minutes! bring on the 
happy morning wherein to be ever her's will make me 
look down on thrones! Dear Molly, I am tenderly, 
passionately, faithfully thine, Richard Steele 

II 

Satti7'day Night \_A21g. 30, 1707] 

DEAR, LOVELY MRS. SCURLOCK, — I have been 
in very good company, where your health, under 
the character of the woman I lov'd best, has been often 
drunk, so that I may say I am dead drunk for your sake, 
which is more than I die for you. — Yours, R. Steele 
343 



" Dear little Woman " 

III 

St. James's Coffee-house 
Sept. I, 1707 

MADAM, — It is the hardest thing in the world to be 
in love and yet to attend to businesse. As for me, 
all who speake to me find me out, and I must lock myself 
up, or other people will do it for me. A gentleman ask'd 
me this morning what news from Lisbon, and I answer'd 
she's exquisitely handsome. Another desir'd to know 
when I had been last at Hampton Court, I reply'd 'twill 
be on Tuesday come se'nnight. Prithee allow me at 
least to kisse your hand before that day, that my mind 
may be in some composure. O love ! 

A thousand torments dwell about thee, 
Yet who would live to live without thee ? 

Methinks I could write a volume to you, but all the 
language on earth would fail in saying how much, and 
with what disinterested passion, I am ever yours, 

RiCHD. Steele 

{Steele and his Prue were married on September 9, 
1707.] 

IV 

March 11, 1708-9 

DEAR PRUE, — I enclose five guineas, but can't come 
home to dinner. Dear little woman, take care of 
thyself, and eat and drink cheerfully. 

RiCHD. Steele 
V 

Dec. 23 

MY DEAR, — I shall not come home to dinner, but 
have fixed everything; and received money for 
present uses. I desire, my dear, that you have nothing 
344 



" The prettyest Woman " 

I else to do but to be a darling; the way to which is to be 
always in good humour, and beleive I spend none of my 
I time but to the advantage of you. — Your most obedient 
I husband, Richard Steele 

VI 

Sept. 30, 1 7 10 

DEAR PRUE, — I am very sleepy and tired, but could 
not think of closing my eyes till I had told you I 
am, dearest creature, your most affectionate and faithful 
husband, Richard Steele 

From the Press one in the morning. 

VII 

/«//i5, 1712 

DEAR PRUE, — I thank you for your kind billet. 
The nurse shall have money this week. I saw 
your son Dick, but he is a peevish chit. You cannot 
conceive how pleased I am that I shall have the prettyest 
house to receive the prettyest woman who is the darling 
of Richard Steele 

VIII 

Hampton Court 

Thursday, Noon, Sep. ly, 1712 

DEAREST WIFE, — The finest woman in nature 
should not detain me an hour from you, but you 
must sometimes suiTer the rivalship of the wisest men. 
Lord Halifax and Sommers leave this place after dinner 
and I go to Watford to speak with the Sollicitor Generalb 
and from thence come directly to Bloomsbury Square. — 
Yours faithfully, Richard Steele 

345 



D 



Complete Surrender 

IX 

March 28, 1713 
EAR PRUE, — I will do every thing you desire your 
own way. — Yours ever, 

Richard Steele 



M. Destrosses, a French prisoner, tells Miss Seward 
the news of his release ^^> "^^ ^^> ^:> 

AH, Madam, I am too happy to eat, and sleep no 
more me. I go to bed, and fall asleep one hour; 
dream see my wife, my children — wake, find so much 
better than dream — am so glad cannot drowsy.^ 



John Sterling bids his friend farewell ^^^ ^^^ ^^ 

August 10, 1844 

MY DEAR CARLYLE, — For the first time for 
many months it seems possible to send you a few 
words ; merely, however, for remembrance and farewell. 
On higher matters there is nothing to say. I tread the 
common road into the great darkness, without any 
thought of fear and with very much of hope. Certainty, 
indeed, I have none. With regard to You and Me I 
cannot begin to write, having nothing for it but to keep 
shut the lids of those secrets with all the iron weights 
that are in my power. Towards me it is still more true 
than towards England, that no man has been and done 

iThis is not really the Frenchman's letter, but an extract from 
one of Miss Seward's letters. Lamb copied it as a letter into one of 
his Commonplace Books. 



The Hereafter 

like you. Heaven bless you! If I can lend a hand when 
There, that will not be wanting. It is all very strange, 
but not one hundredth part so sad as it seems to the 
standers-by. 

Your wife knows my mind towards her, and will believe 
it without asseverations. — Yours to the last, 

John Sterling 



347 



XVII 
THE RURAL RECLUSES 

Charles Napier longs for peace ^^^v -^> ^::^ 

Bermudas, 1813 

MOTHER, DEAREST MOTHER, — Would to God 
I was rid of this vagabond life of a felon. Peace ! 
peace! when shall we have peace? 

April 20th. — Now for your Christmas letter. A year's 
pay to have seen aunt dance — the idea is delightful. 
God bless her. Oh ! my wish is to be dancing with those 
I love, or beating them, or anything so as to be living 
with you, and to pitch my sword where it ought to be — 
with the devil ! Henry says, if it were so the wish 
would come to have it back ; but my craving for rest is 
such that twenty years would hardly serve to satisfy me, 
and that is probably ten more than I am likely to live — 
a soldier now-a-days is old at forty. I could get on with 
a duck, a chicken, a turkey, a horse, a pig, a cat, a cow 
and a wife, in a very contented way; why! gardening 
has become so interesting to me here, as to force me to 
give it up, lest neglect of business should follow : it is a 
kind of madness, with me. Gardening from morning to 
348 



The tired Soldier 

night should be my occupation if there was any one to 
command the regiment, it won't let me think of anything 
else. So hang the garden, and the sweet red and blue 
birds that swarm around: and hang dame Nature for 
making me love such things, and women's company, 
more than the sublime pleasure of cutting people's 
throats, and teaching young men to do so. 

Henry is wrong. I would not be tired of home. My 
fondness for a quiet life would never let me desire to 
roam in search of adventures. A few centuries back I 
should have been a hermit, making free however with 
the rules of the order, by taking a wife instead of a staff: 
one cross-grained thing is as good as another. It is 
certain that a civil life would give me one thing which 
a military life would not — that is I should never, my own 
blessed mother, get tired of the power of living with you : 
that would make up for all the affliction and regret of not 
murdering my neighbours ; of living an exile, with the 
interesting anxiety of believing those I love suffer even 
to death, while imagination amuses itself with castles for 
months before it can be known what is their fate. How 
shocking to give up such delights for the painfulness of 
peace and quiet, and a beloved society. Be assured it 
will not be easy to persuade me of that ; and quit the 
army with joy will I, when the power to do so is mine : 
but my luck will not go so far. God bless you all not 
forgetting little Mongey [a tame mongoose brought 
from the East by his brother Henry] that is if he has a 
soul to be saved, but I see him bristling his tail at 
St. Peter. 

May. — What a cursed life is a soldier's, no object, no 

end, without appui for head or heart, unless that 

unnatural one of military fame, which to a British soldier 

is so trifling that it is not worth gaining. A captain who 

349 



Lotus-eating at Beccles 

wins the government of a country by his victories may 
sit down in peace, and have an interesting pursuit for 
the rest of his hfe, but war, eternal war, is horrible. 



Edward FitzGerald with Nero and a Nightingale ^:> 

^/rz7 28, 1839 

MY DEAR ALLEN, — Some one from this house is 
going to London : and I will try and write you 
some lines now in half an hour before dinner : I am 
going out for the evening to my old lady who teaches me 
the names of the stars, and other chaste information. 
You see, Master John Allen, that if I do not come to 
London (and I have no thought of going yet) and you 
will not write, there is likely to be an end of our com- 
munication : not by the way that I am never to go to 
London again : but not just yet. Here I live with 
tolerable content : perhaps with as much as most people 
arrive at, and what if one were properly grateful one 
would perhaps call perfect happiness. Here is a 
glorious sunshiny day : all the morning I read about 
Nero in Tacitus lying at full length on a bench in the 
garden; a nightingale singing, and some red anemones 
eyeing the sun manfully not far off. 

A funny mixture all this : Nero, and the delicacy of 
Spring : all very human however. Then at half-past one 
lunch on Cambridge cream cheese : then a ride over hill 
and dale : then spudding up some weeds from the 
grass : and then coming in, I sit down to write to you, my 
sister winding red worsted from the back of a chair, and 
the most delightful little girl in the world chattering 
incessantly. So runs the world away. You think I live 
in Epicurean ease : but this happens to be a jolly day : 
350 



Mr. Gray at his Uncle's 

one isn't always well, or tolerably good, the weather is 
not always clear, nor nightingales singing, nor Tacitus 
full of pleasant atrocity. But such as life is, I believe I 
have got hold of a good end of it. . . . 

Give my love to Thackeray from your upper window 
across the street. 

So he has lost a little child : and moreover has been 
sorry to do so. 

Well, good-bye, my dear John Allen ; Auld Lang Syne. 
My kind regards to your lady. 

Down to the vale this water steers, 

How merrily it goes : 
'Twill murmur on a thousand years, 
And flow as now it flows. 

E. F. G. 

Geldestone Hall, Beccles 



Mr. Gray describes his rural felicity ^^:^ ^:y ^^ 
(To Horace Walpole) 

I WAS hindered in my last, and so could not give you 
all the trouble I would have done. The description 
of a road, which your coach wheels have so often 
honoured, it would be needless to give you ; suffice it 
that I arrived safe at my uncle's, who is a great hunter in 
imagination ; his dogs take up every chair in the house, 
so I am forced to stand at this present writing; and 
though the gout forbids him galloping after them in the 
field, yet he continues still to regale his ears and nose 
with their comfortable noise and stink. He holds me 
mighty cheap, I perceive, for walking when I should 
ride, and reading when I should hunt. My comfort 



The Scholar's Paradise 

amidst all this is, that I have at the distance of half a mile, 

through a lane green, a forest (the vulgar call it a 

common) all my own, at least as good as so, for I spy no 

human thing in it but myself. It is a little chaos of 

mountains and precipices ; mountains, it is true, that do 

not ascend much above the clouds, nor are the declivities 

quite so amazing as Dover cliff; but just such hills as 

people who love their necks as well as I do may venture 

to climb, and crags that give the eye as much pleasure as 

if they were more dangerous. Both vale and hill are 

covered with most venerable beeches, and other very 

reverent vegetables, that, like most other ancient people, 

are always dreaming out their old stories to the winds, 

And as they bow their hoary tops relate, 

In murm'ring sounds, the dark decrees of fate; 

While visions, as poetic eyes avow. 

Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough. 

At the foot of one of these squats ME I (// penseroso), 
and there grow to the trunk for a whole morning. The 
timorous hare and sporting squirrel gambol around me 
like Adam in Paradise, before he had an Eve ; but I 
think he did not use to read Virgil, as I commonly do 
there. In this situation I often converse with my 
Horace, aloud, too, that is, talk to you, but I do not 
remember that I ever heard you answer me. I beg 
pardon for taking all the conversation to myself, but it is 
entirely your own fault. We have old Mr. Southern at a 
gentleman's house a little way off, who often comes to see 
us ; he is now seventy-seven years old, and has almost 
wholly lost his memory ; but is as agreeable as an old 
man can be, at least I persuade myself so when I look 
at him, and think of Isabella and Oroonoko. I shall be in 
town in about three weeks. Adieu. 

September 1737 
352 



The backward Look 

William Covvper speculates on the Picts ^^^ ^^^ 

(To the Rev. John Newton) 

November 30, 1783 

MY DEAR FRIEND, — I have neither long visits to 
pay nor to receive, nor ladies to spend hours in 
telling me that which might be told in five minutes, yet 
often find myself obliged to be an economist of time, and 
to make the most of a short opportunity. Let our station 
be as retired as it may, there is no want of playthings 
and avocations, nor much need to seek them, in this 
world of ours. Business, or what presents itself to us 
under that imposing character, will find us out, even in 
the stillest retreat, and plead its importance, however 
trivial in reality, as a just demand upon our attention. 
It is wonderful how, by means of such real or seeming 
necessities, my time is stolen away. I have just time to 
observe that time is short, and by the time I have made 
the observation, time is gone. I have wondered in 
former days at the patience of the antediluvian world ; 
that they could endure a life almost millenary, with so 
little variety as seems to have fallen to their share. 
It is probable that they had much few^er employments 
than we. Their affairs lay in a narrower compass ; their 
libraries were indifferently furnished ; philosophical re- 
searches were carried on with much less industry and 
acuteness of penetration, and fiddles, perhaps, were not 
even invented. How then could seven or eight hundred 
years of life be supportable? I have asked this question 
formerly, and been at a loss to resolve it ; but I think I 
can answer it now. I will suppose myself born a 
thousand years before Noah was born or thought of. 
I rise with the sun ; I worship ; I prepare my breakfast ; 
2 A 353 



From Olney to B.C. 

I swallow a bucket of goat's milk, and a dozen good 
sizeable cakes. I fasten a new string to my bow, and my 
youngest boy, a lad of about thirty years of age, having 
played with my arrows till he has stript off all the 
feathers, I find myself obliged to repair them. The 
morning is thus spent in preparing for the chase, 
and it is become necessary that I should dine. I dig 
up my roots; I wash them; I boil them; I find them 
not done enough ; I boil them again ; my wife is angry ; 
we dispute; we settle the point; but in the meantime 
the fire goes out, and must be kindled again. All this is 
very amusing. I hunt ; I bring home the prey ; with the 
skin of it I mend an old coat, or I make a new one. 
By this time the day is far spent ; I feel myself fatigued, 
and retire to rest. Thus what with tilling the ground 
and eating the fruit of it, hunting and walking, and 
running, and mending old clothes, and sleeping and 
rising again, I can suppose an inhabitant of the primaeval 
world so much occupied, as to sigh over the shortness 
of life, and to find at the end of many centuries, that 
they had all slipt through his fingers, and were passed 
away like a shadow. 

What wonder then that I, who live in a day of so much 
greater refinement, when there is so much more to be 
wanted, and wished, and to be enjoyed, should feel 
myself now and then pinched in point of opportunity, and 
at some loss for leisure to fill four sides of a sheet like 
this ? 

Thus, however, it is, and if the ancient gentlemen to 
whom I have referred, and their complaints of the dispro- 
portion of time to the occasions they had for it, will not 
serve me as an excuse, I must even plead guilty, and 
confess that I am often in haste, when I have no good 
reason for being so. . . . Wm. Cowper 

354 



Before Miss Jekyll 
Pliny describes his villa to Appollinaris ^^> ^^:^ 

MY villa, near the foot of the hill, is so happily placed 
as to catch the prospect which is seen from the 
top ; yet the acclivity by which you ascend to it, is 
attained by so gradual and imperceptible an ascent ; 
that you find you are on an elevation, without having 
been sensible of any effort in arriving at it. 

Behind, but at a great distance, are the Apennine 
mountains. In the serenest and calmest day we receive 
the w'inds that blow from this quarter, but spent and 
subdued before they reach us by passing through the 
space interposed. The aspect of a great part of the 
building is full south, and invites, as it were, the afternoon 
sun in summer (though somewhat earlier in the winter) 
into a portico of well-proportioned dimensions, in which 
there are many divisions, and a porch or entrance hall 
after the manner of the ancients. Before this portico is a 
terrace walk, adorned with various figures having a box 
hedge, and an easy slope with the figures of animals in 
box on the opposite sides, answering alternately to each 
other. In the level land below is the soft, I had almost 
said, the liquid Acanthus. 

A walk goes round this area shut in with tonsile ever- 
greens, cut into various forms. This leads to the gestatio 
which is made in the form of a circus, with box in the 
middle cut into various shapes with a plantation of 
shrubs, kept by the shears from becoming luxuriant. 
The whole is fenced in by a wall, covered by box cut 
into steps. Beyond this lies a meadow as much set off 
by nature, as what I have been describing is by art, 
which again terminates in other meadows and fields 
interspersed with coppices. 

The portico ends in a dining room, which opens upon 
355 



For " my familiar Friends " 

the piazza with folding doors, from the windows of which 
you see immediately before you the meadows, and beyond 
a wide expanse of country. 

Here also is seen the terrace and the projecting part of 
the villa; as also the grove and woods of the adjacent 
garden walk, which has the name of hippodrome. 

Opposite nearly the middle of the portico, and rather 
to the back, is an apartment which encloses a small area 
shaded by four plane trees, in the middle of which a 
fountain running over the brim of a marble basin 
refreshes with its gentle sprinkling the surrounding trees, 
and the verdure which they overhang. In the summer 
apartment there is an inner sleeping room, which shuts 
out both light and noise; and adjoining this is a common 
dining room, for the reception of my familiar friends. A 
second portico looks upon the little area, and has the 
same prospect as the portico I have just described. 
There is besides another room, which being close to 
the nearest plane trees enjoys a constant shade and 
verdure. Its sides are composed of sculptured marble 
up to the balcony : and from thence to the ceiling there 
is a painting of boughs with birds sitting on them ; not 
less pleasing than the marble carving; at the base of 
which is a little fountain, playing through several pipes 
into a vase, and producing a most agreeable murmur. 
From an angle of the portico you pass into a very 
spacious chamber opposite the dining room, which from 
some of its windows has a view of the terrace, and from 
others of the meadow ; while from those in front you 
look upon a cascade which gratifies at once both the 
eye and the ear; for the water falls from a height 
foaming in the marble basin below. This chamber is 
very warm in the winter, as it is much exposed to the 
sun. And if the day is cloudy the sun's place is supplied 
356 



"Pliny's Baths" 

by the heat of an adjoining stove. From thence through 
a spacious and cheerful undressing room you pass to the 
cold bathing room, in which is a large and dark bath ; 
but if you are disposed to swim more at large, or in 
warmer water, there is in the same area a large bath for 
that purpose, and near it a reservoir which will give you 
cold water if you wish to be braced again, or feeling 
yourself too relaxed by the warm. Near the cold bath is 
one of moderate heat, being most kindly acted upon by the 
sun, but not so much affected by it as the warm bath, which 
projects further. 

This apartment for bathing has three divisions; — two 
lie open to the full sun, the third is so disposed as to have 
less of its heat. Over the undressing room is built the 
tennis court, which admits of many kinds of games by 
means of its different circles. Near the bath is the 
staircase which leads to the enclosed portico, but not 
till the three apartments have been passed ; and of those 
one looks upon that little area in which are the four 
plane trees, another upon the meadows, and the third 
upon several vineyards ; so that they have their respective 
aspects and views. At one end of the enclosed portico, 
and taken off from it, is a chamber that looks upon the 
hippodrome, the vineyards, and the mountains ; and next 
to this is a room having the sun full upon it, especially in 
the winter. To this succeeds an apartment which connects 
the hippodrome with the house. 

Such is the face and frontage of our villa. On the 
side of it is a summer enclosed portico, the position of 
which is high, so as not only to command the vineyards, 
but to seem to touch them. From the middle of this 
portico you enter a dining room, cooled by the salubrious 
breezes from the valleys of the Apennines. From the 
very large windows at the back you have a prospect of 
357 



The Summer Portico 

the vineyards, as you have also from the folding doors, 
as if you were looking from the summer portico, along 
that side of the last mentioned dining room, where there 
are no windows, runs a staircase affording a private 
access for serving of entertainments. At the end of this 
room is a sleeping chamber; underneath this apartment 
is an enclosed portico ; looking like a grotto, which during 
the summer, having a coolness of its own from being 
impervious to the sun, neither admits nor needs any 
breezes from without. After you have passed both these 
porticos, and where the dining room ends, you again 
enter a portico, used in the forenoon during winter, and 
in the evening during summer ; it leads to two general 
apartments, one containing four sleeping rooms, the other 
three, which in their turn have the benefit of the sun or 
shade. The hippodrome extends its length before this 
agreeably disposed range of building, entirely open in 
the middle, so that the eye on the first entrance sees 
the whole. It is surrounded by plane trees, which are 
clothed with ivy, so that while their tops flourish in 
their own, their bodies are decked in borrowed verdure, 
the ivy thus wanders over the trunks and branches, and 
by passing from one plane tree to another unites the 
neighbours together. Between these plane trees box 
trees are interposed, and the laurel stationed behind 
the box, adds its shade to that of the planes. This 
plantation forming the straight boundary on each side 
of the hippodrome, or great garden walk, ends in a semi- 
circle, is varied in form ; this part is surrounded and 
sheltered with cypress trees which cast round a dark and 
solemn shade ; while the day breaks in upon the interior 
circular walks, which are numerous. 

You are regaled at this spot with the fragrance of 
roses, while you find the coldness of the shade agree- 
358 



The fantastic Box 

ably tempered and corrected by the warmth of the sun. 
Having passed througli these winding walks, you re- 
enter the walk with its straight enclosure, but not to this 
only, for many ways branch out from it, divided by box- 
hedges. Here you have a little meadow, and here the 
box is cut into a thousand different forms ; sometimes into 
letters, expressing the name of the owner, sometimes that 
of the artificer. In some places are little pillars, inter- 
mingled alternately with fruit trees ; when on a sudden 
while you are gazing on these objects of elegant work- 
manship, your view is opened on an imitation of natural 
scenery, in the middle of which is a group of dwarf plane 
trees. 

Beyond these there commences a walk, abounding in 
the smooth and flexible acanthus, and trees cut into a 
variety of figures and names ; at the upper end of which 
is a seat of white marble, overspread with vines, which 
are supported by four small Carystian pillars. From 
this seat the water issues through little pipes, as if 
pressed out by the persons sitting upon it ; and first 
falling into a stone reservoir, is received by a polished 
marble basin, its descent being secretly so managed 
as always to keep the basin full, without running 
over. 

Here when I take a repast ; I make a table of the 
margin of the basin for the heavier and more substantial 
dishes, the lighter being made to swim about in the form 
of little ships and aquatic birds. Opposite is a fountain 
which is incessantly sending forth and taking back its 
contents, for the water which is sent up to a height falls 
back upon itself, there being two openings, through one 
of which it is thrown out, and through the other absorbed 
again. 

Opposite the seat or alcove before mentioned, a sum- 
359 



Pliny*s Summer-House 

mer-house stands which reflects as much beauty upon 
the alcove as it borrows from it. It dazzles with its 
polished marble, and with its projecting doors opens 
into a lawn a vivid green. From its upper and lower 
windows the eye is greeted with other verdant scenes. 
Connected with this summer-house, and yet distinct 
from it, is a little apartment furnished with a couch to 
repose upon, with windows all round it, and yet suffi- 
ciently shaded and obscured by a most luxuriant vine 
which climbs to the top and spreads itself over the whole 
building. 

You repose here, just as if you were in a grove, only 
that you are not, as in a grove^ liable to be inconvenienced 
by a shower. 

In this place also a fountain rises, but in same moment 
disappears. 

In many places there are seats of marble, which like the 
summer-house itself, offer a great relief and accommoda- 
tion to such as are fatigued with walking. 

Near each seat is a little fountain. And throughout 
the whole hippodrome, rivulets run murmuring along, 
conducted by pipes, and taking whatever turn the hand 
of art may give them ; and by these the different green 
plots are severally refreshed, and sometimes the whole 
together. 

I should have avoided this particularity; for fear of 
being thought too minute, if I had not set out with the 
resolution of taking you into every corner of my house and 
gardens. I have not been afraid of your being weary of 
reading the description of a place which I am sure you 
would not think it wearisome to visit ; especially as you 
can lay down my letter, and rest as often as you think 
proper. I must also confess, that in this description I 
have been indulging the attachment I feel to my villa. 
360 



"Alone I did it" 

I have an affection for a place which was either begun 
or completed, but principally begun, by myself. In a 
word (for why should I not disclose to you my opinion, 
or, if you will, my error), I consider it to be the first 
duty of a writer to keep his subject in view, and from 
time to time to ask himself what he has professed to 
write upon. And he may be sure, that if he keeps 
close to his subject, he cannot be tedious ; but most 
tedious, indeed, will he be, if he suffer anything to 
call him away, or draw him off his subject. You 
see how many verses Homer and Virgil have bestowed 
respectively upon the description of the arms of Achilles 
and ^neas ; and neither of these poets can be called 
prolix on this subject, because he does no more than 
execute his professed design. You see how Aratus 
searches out and collects the smallest stars ; and yet 
he is not chargeable with being circumstantial to excess. 
For this is not the diffusiveness of the writer, but of 
the subject itself. In the same manner (to compare 
small things with great), in striving to lay before your 
eyes my entire villa, if I take not care to wander or 
deviate from my subject, it is not of the size of my 
letter which describes, but of the villa which is described, 
that you are to complain. But I will return to the point 
from which I set out with this digression ; lest I should 
fall under the censure of my own rules. You have before 
you the reason why I prefer my Tuscan villa to those 
which I possess at Tusculum, Tiber, and Praeneste. 

For in addition to what I have related concerning it, I 
enjoy here a deeper, solider, and securer leisure ; no calls 
of public business; nothing near me to summon me from 
my quiet. All is calm and still around me; which 
character of the place operates like a more genial 
climate or clearer atmosphere in rendering the situation 
361 



With Claire at the Casino 

salubrious. Here I am at the top of my strength in 
body and mind ; the one I keep in exercise by study ; 
the other by hunting. Nor does any place agree better 
with my family. Certainly, hitherto, (if it be not too 
like boasting to talk so,) I have not lost one of all those 
whom I brought with me hither, and may heaven con- 
tinue that happiness to me, and that honour to my Villa. 
Farewell ! 



Shelley bathes at Lucca "^^ ^^:^ ^^^ 



M 



Bagni di Lucca, /?//k 25, 1818 
Y DEAR PEACOCK, — I received on the same 
day your letters marked five and six, the one 



assure you they are most welcome visitors. 

Our life here is as unvaried by any external events as if 
we were at Marlow, where a sail up the river or a journey 
to London makes an epoch. Since I last wrote to you, 
I have ridden over to Lucca, once with Claire, and once 
alone ; and we have been over to the Casino, where I 
cannot say there is anything remarkable, the women 
being far removed from anything which the most liberal 
annotator could interpret into beauty- or grace, and 
apparently possessing no intellectual excellencies to 
compensate the deficiency. I assure you it is well that 
it is so, for these dances, especially the waltz, are so 
exquisitely beautiful that it would be a little dangerous 
to the newly unfrozen senses and imaginations of us 
migrators from the neighbourhood of the Pole. As it 
is — except in the dark — there could be no peril. The 
atmosphere here, unlike that of the rest of Italy, is 
diversified with clouds, which grow in the middle of the 
362 



Jupiter and Venus 

day, and sometimes bring thunder and lightning, and 
hail about the size of a pigeon's egg, and decrease 
towards the evening, leaving only those finely woven 
webs of vapour which we see in English skies, and flocks 
of fleecy and slowly-moving clouds, which all vanish 
before sunset ; and the nights are for ever serene, and 
we see a star in the east at sunset — I think it is Jupiter — 
almost as fine as Venus was last summer; but it wants 
a certain silver and aerial radiance, and soft yet piercing 
splendour, which belongs, I suppose, to the latter planet 
by virtue of its at once divine and female nature. I have 
forgotten to ask the ladies if Jupiter produces on them 
the same eifect. I take great delight in watching the 
changes of the atmosphere. In the evening Mary and 
I often take a ride, for horses are cheap in this country. 
In the middle of the day, I bathe in a pool or fountain, 
formed in the middle of the forests by a torrent. It is 
surrounded on all sides by precipitous rocks, and the 
waterfall of the stream which forms it falls into it on one 
side with perpetual dashing. Close to it, on the top of 
the rocks, are alders, and, above, the great chestnut trees, 
whose long and pointed leaves pierce the deep blue sky 
in strong relief. The water of this pool, which, to venture 
an unrhythmical paraphrase, is "sixteen feet long and ten 
feet wide,'' is as transparent as the air, so that the stones 
and sand at the bottom seem, as it were, trembling in 
the light of noonday. It is exceedingly cold also. My 
custom is to undress and sit on the rocks, reading 
Herodotus, until the perspiration has subsided, and then 
to leap from the edge of the rock into this fountain — a 
practice in the hot weather exceedingly refreshing. This 
torrent is composed, as it were, of a succession of pools 
and waterfalls, up which I sometimes amuse myself by 
climbing when I bathe, and receiving the spray all over 

363 



True to Windsor and Marlow 

my body, whilst I clamber up the moist crags with 
difficulty. . . . 

What pleasure would it have given me if the wings of 
imagination could have divided the space which divides 
us, and I could have been of your party ! I have seen 
nothing so beautiful as Virginia Water in its kind, and 
my thoughts for ever cling to Windsor Forest, and the 
copses of Marlow, like the clouds which hang upon the 
woods of the mountains, low trailing, and though they 
pass away, leave their best dew when they themselves 
have faded. 

Mr. Shenstone gives Mr. Jago an account of his 
country contentments ^^> "==^ ^^^ ^^:> 

The Leasowes, March 23, 1747-48 

DEAR SIR, — I have sent Tom over for the papers 
which I left under your inspection ; having 
nothing to add upon this head, but that the more freely 
and particularly you give me your opinion, the greater 
will be the obligation which I shall have to acknowledge. 
I shall be very glad if I happen to receive a good large 
bundle of your own compositions ; in regard to which, I 
will observe any commands which you shall please to 
lay upon me. 

I am favoured with a certain correspondence, by way 
of letter, which I told you I should be glad to cultivate ; 
and I find it very entertaining. Pray did you receive my 
answer to your last letter, sent by way of London? 

I should be extremely sorry to be debarred the pleasure 

of writing to you by the post, as often as I feel a violent 

propensity to describe the notable incidents of my life ; 

which amount to about as much as the tinsel of your 

364 



At The Leasowes 

little boy^s hobby-horse. I am on the point of purchasing 
a couple of busts for the niches of my hall ; and believe 
me, my good friend, I never proceed one step in ornament- 
ing my little farm, but I enjoy the hopes of rendering it 
more agreeable to you, and the small circle of acquaint- 
ance which sometimes favour me with their company. 
I shall be extremely glad to see you and Mr. Fancourl 
when the trees are green ; that is, in May ; but I would 
not have you content yourself with a single visit this 
summer. 

If Mr. Hardy (to whom you will make my compliments) 
inclines to favour me so far, you must calculate so as to 
wait on him whenever he finds it convenient ; though I 
have better hopes of making his reception here agreeable 
to him when my lord Dudley comes down. I wonder 
how he would like the scheme I am upon, of exchanging 
a large tankard for a silver standish. I have had a couple 
of paintings given me since you were here. One of them 
is a Madonna, valued, as it is said, at ten guineas in 
Italy, but which you would hardly purchase at the price 
of five shillings. However, I am endeavouring to make 
it out to be one of Carlo Maratti's, who was a first hand, 
and famous for Madonnas; even so as to be nick-named 
Cartuccio delle Madoime^ by Salvator Rosa. Two letters 
of the cypher (CM) agree ; what shall I do with regard 
to the third? It is a small piece, and sadly blackened. 
It is about the size (though not quite the shape) of the 
Bacchus over the parlour door, and has much such a 
frame. 

A person may amuse himself almost as cheaply as he 
pleases. I find no small delight in rearing all sorts of 
poultry ; geese, turkeys, pullets, ducks, etc. 

I am also somewhat smitten with a blackbird which I 
have purchased : a very fine one ; brother by father, but 
365 



Shenstone's Blackbird 

not by mother, to the unfortunate bird you so beautifully 
describe, a copy of which description you must not fail to 
send me; — but as I said before, one may easily habituate 
one's self to cheap amusements ; that is, rural ones (for 
all town amusements are horridly expensive) ; — I would 
have you cultivate your garden ; plant flowers ; have a 
bird or two in the hall (they will at least amuse your 
children) ; write now and then a song ; buy now and 
then a book ; write now and then a letter to your most 
sincere friend, and affectionate servant. 

P.S. — I hope you have exhausted all your spirit of 
criticism upon my verses, that you may have none left 
to cavil at this letter ; for I am ashamed to think, that 
you, in particular, should receive the dullest I ever wrote 
in my life. 

Make my compliments to Mrs. Jago. She can go a 
little abroad, you say. — Tell her, I should be proud to 
show her the Leasowes. Adieu ! 



Pliny returns to Nature ^^ ^^^ ^^ ^> 
(To Cornelius Tacitus) 

YOU will certainly laugh (and laugh you may) 
when I tell you, that your old acquaintance is 
turned sportsman, and has taken three noble boars. 
What! (you will say, with astonishment) PHny! — Even 
he. However, I indulge, at the same time, my beloved 
inactivity ; and whilst I sat at my nets, you would have 
found me, not with my spear, but my pencil and tablet 
by my side. I mused and wrote, being resolved, if I 
returned with my hands empty, at least to come home 
with my memorandums full. Believe me, this manner 
366 



The literary Huntsman 

of studying is not to be despised : you cannot conceive 
how greatly exercise contributes to enliven the imagina- 
tion. There is, besides, something in the solemnity of 
the venerable woods with which one is surrounded, 
together with that profound silence \yhich is observed 
on these occasions, that strongly inclines the mind to 
meditation. For the future, therefore, let me advise 
you, whenever you hunt, to take your pencil and tablets 
with you, as well as your basket and bottle; for be 
assured you will find Minerva as fond of traversing the 
hills as Diana. Farewel. 



William Cowper in at the death -'v:^ -^^ 
(To Lady Hesketh) 



o 



The Lodge, March 3, 1788 
NE day, last week, Mrs. Unwin and I, having 
taken our morning walk and returning homeward 
through the wilderness, met the Throckmortons. 

A minute after we had met them, we heard the cry 
of hounds at no great distance, and mounting the broad 
stump of an elm which had been felled, and by the aid of 
which we were enabled to look over the wall, we saw 
them. 

They were all at that time in our orchard ; presently 
we heard a terrier, belonging to Mrs. Throckmorton, 
which you may remember by the name of Fury, yelping 
with much vehemence, and saw her running through 
the thickets within a few yards of us at her utmost speed, 
as if in pursuit of something which we doubted not was 
the fox. Before we could reach the other end of the 
wilderness, the hounds entered also ; and when we 
367 



The sagacious Huntsman 

arrived at the gate which opens into the grove, there we 
found the whole weary cavalcade assembled. 

The huntsman dismounting, begged leave to follow 
his hounds on foot, for he was sure, he said, that they 
had killed him : a conclusion which I suppose he drew 
from their profound silence. 

He was accordingly admitted, and with a sagacity that 
would not have dishonoured the best hound in the world, 
pursuing precisely the same track which the fox and 
dogs had taken, though he had never had a glimpse 
of either after their first entrance through the rails, 
arrived where he found the slaughtered prey. He soon 
produced dead reynard, and rejoined us in the grove 
with all his dogs about him. 

Having an opportunity to see a ceremony, which I 
was pretty sure would never fall in my way again, I 
determined to stay and to notice all that passed with the 
most minute attention. 

The huntsman having by the aid of a pitchfork lodged 
reynard on the arm of an elm, at the height of about 
nine feet from the ground, there left him for a consider- 
able time. The gentlemen sat on their horses contem- 
plating the fox, for which they had toiled so hard ; and 
the hounds assembled at the foot of the tree, with faces 
not less expressive of the most rational delight, contem- 
plated the same object. The huntsman remounted ; cut 
off a foot, and threw it to the hounds ; — one of them 
swallowed it whole like a bolus. He then once more 
alighted, and drawing down the fox by the hinder legs, 
desired the people, who were by this time rather 
numerous, to open a lane for him to the right and left. 
He was instantly obeyed, when throwing the fox to the 
distance of some yards, and screaming like a fiend, "tear 
him to pieces" — at least six times repeatedly, he con- 
368 



Cowper rivals Nimrod 

signed him over absolutely to the pack, who in a few 
minutes devoured him completely. Thus, my dear, as 
Virgil says, what none of the gods could have ventured 
to promise me, time itself, pursuing its accustomed 
course, has of its own accord presented me with. 

I have been in at the death of a fox, and you now know 
as much of the matter as I, who am as well informed 
as any sportsman in England. — Yours, W. C. 



2B 369 



XVIII 
SHADOWS 

Sir Walter Scott accepts the blow ^^ ^^> ^o^- 

Edinburgh, /anreary 20, 1826 

MY DEAR LOCKHART, — I have your kind letter. 
Whenever I heard that Constable had made a 
cessw fori, I thought it became me to make public how 
far I was concerned in these matters, and to offer my 
fortune so far as it was prestable, and the completion 
of my literary engagements (the better thing almost of 
the two) ; to make good all claims upon Ballantyne & 
Co. ; and even supposing that neither Hurst & Co. nor 
Constable & Co. ever pay a penny they owe me, my old 
age will be far from destitute — even if my right hand 
should lose its cunning. This is the very worst that 
can befall me; but I have little doubt that, with 
ordinary management, the affairs of those houses will 
turn out favourably. It is needless to add that I will 
not engage myself, as Constable desires, for ^20,000 
more — or £,1000 — or ^200. I haye advanced enough 
already to pay other people's debts, and now must pay 
my own. 

370 



I 



Excuses for Constable 

If our friend C. had set out a fortnight earlier 
nothing of all this would have happened; but he let 
the hour of distress precede the hour of provision, and 
he and others must pay for it. Yet don't hint this to 
him, poor fellow ; it is an infirmity of nature. 

I have made my matters public, and have had splendid 
offers of assistance, all which I have declined, for I 
would rather bear my own burden than subject myself 
to obligation. There is but one way in such cases. 

It is easy, no doubt, for my friend to blame me for 
entering into connection with commercial matters at all. 
But I wish to know what I could have done better, 
excluded from the Bar, and then from all profits for 
six years, by my colleague's prolonged life. Literature 
was not in those days what poor Constable has made 
it ; and, with my little capital, I was too glad to make 
commercially the means of supporting my family. I got 
but ;^6oo for the Lay of the Last Minstrel, and — it was 
a price that made men's hair stand on end — ;^iooo for 
Marmion. I have been far from suffering by James 
Ballantyne. I owe it to him to say, that his difificulties, 
as well as his advantages, are owing to me. I trusted 
too much Constable's assurances of his own and his 
correspondents' stability, but yet I believe he was only 
sanguine. The upshot is just what Hurst & Co. and 
Constable may be able to pay me; if 15s. in the pound; 
I shall not complain of my loss, for I have gained 
many thousands in my day. But while I live I shall 
regret the downfall of Constable's house, for never 
did there exist so intelligent and so liberal an 
establishment. 

They went too far when money was plenty, that is 
certain ; yet if every author in Britain had taxed himself 
half a years income, he should have kept up the house 



Taking up the Burden 

which first broke in upon the monoply of the London 
trade, and made letters what they now are. 

I have had visits from all the monied people, offering 
their purses — and those who are creditors, sending 
their managers and treasurers to assure me of their join- 
ing in and adopting any measures I may propose. I am 
glad of this for their sake and for my own ; for although 
1 shall not desire to steer, yet I am the only person 
that can conn, as Lieutenant Hatchway says, to any 
good purpose. 

A very odd anonymous offer I had of ^30,000, which 
I rejected, as I did every other. Unless I die, I shall 
beat up against this foul weather. A penny I will not 
borrow from anyone. Since my creditors are content 
to be patient, I have the means of righting them per- 
fectly, and the confidence to employ them. I should 
have given a good deal to have avoided the cotip d^ eclat ; 
but that having taken place, I would not give sixpence 
for any other results. I fear you will think I am writing 
in the heat of excited resistance to bad fortune. My 
dear Lockhart, I am as calm and temperate as ever you 
saw me, and working at Woodstock like a very tiger. I 
am grieved for Lady Scott and Anne, who cannot con- 
ceive adversity can have the better of them, even for a 
moment. If it teaches a little of the frugality which 
I never had the heart to enforce when money was 
plenty, and it seemed cruel to interrupt the enjoyment 
of it in the way they liked best, it will be well. 

Kindest love to Sophia, and tell her to study the 
song and keep her spirits up. Tyne heart, tyne all ; 
and it is making more of money than it is worth to 
grieve about it. Kiss Johnnie for me. How glad I 
am fortune carried you to London before these reverses 
happened, as they would have embittered parting, and 
372 



Colllngwood's Sword 

made it resemble the boat leaving the sinking ship. - 
Yours, dear Lockhart, affectionately, 

Walter Scott 



Lord Collingwood thanks the Duke of Clarence for 
ennobling him and tells him of Nelson's death .<^^ 

" Queen," off Carthagena 
December 12, 1805 

I CANNOT express how great my gratitude is to your 
Royal Highness, for the high honour which you 
have done me by your letter, congratulating me on the 
success of His Majesty's fleet against his enemies. 

This instance of condescension, and mark of your 
Royal Highness's kindness to one of the most humble, 
but one of the most faithful of His Majesty's servants 
is deeply engraved in my heart. I shall ever consider 
it as a great happiness to have merited your Royal 
Highness's approbation, of which the sword which you 
have presented to me is a testimony so highly honourable 
to me; for which I beg your Royal Highness will accept 
my best thanks, and the assurance that, whenever His 
Majesty's service demands it, I will endeavour to use it 
in support of our country's honour, and to the advance- 
ment of His Majesty's glory. 

The loss which your Royal Highness and myself have 
sustained in the death of Lord Nelson can only be 
estimated by those who had the happiness of sharing 
his friendship. 

He had all the qualities that adorn the human heart, 
and a head which, by its quickness of perception and 
depth of penetration, qualified him for the highest offices 
of his profession. But why am I making these observa- 



Nelson's last Moments 

tions to your Royal Highness, who knew him? Because 
I cannot speak of him but to do him honour. 

Your Royal Highness desires to know the particular 
circumstance of his death. I have seen Captain Hardy 
but for a few minutes since, and understood from him, that 
at the time the Victory was very closely engaged in rather 
a crowd of ships, and that Lord Nelson was commanding 
some ship that was conducted much to his satisfaction, 
when a musket-ball struck him on the left breast. Cap- 
tain Hardy took hold of him to support him, when he smiled, 
and said, •' Hardy, I believe they have done it at last." 

He was carried below; and when the ship was dis- 
engaged from the crowd, he sent an officer to inform 
me that he was wounded. I asked the officer if his 
wound was dangerous. He hesitated ; then said he 
hoped it was not ; but I saw the fate of my friend in 
his eye ; for his look told what his tongue could not utter. 
About an hour after, when the action was over, Captain 
Hardy brought me the melancholy account of his death. 
He inquired frequently how the battle went, and expressed 
joy when the enemy were striking; in his last moments 
shewing an anxiety for the glory of his country, though 
regardless of what related to his own person. 

I have the honour to be. Sir, your Royal Highness's 
most obedient and most humble servant. 



Charles Lamb loses an old friend ^^:> ^^^ -"^i^ 

COLEBROOKE RoW, ISLINGTON 

Saturday, January 20, 1827 

DEAR ROBINSON,— I called upon you this morning, 
and found that you were gone to visit a dying 
friend. I had been upon a like errand. Poor Norris 
374 



" None to call me Charley now " 

has been lying dying for now almost a week, such is the 
penalty we pay for having enjoyed a strong constitution! 
Whether he knew me or not, I know not, or whether he 
saw me through his poor glazed eyes ; but the group I 
saw about him I shall not forget. Upon the bed, or 
about it, were assembled his wife and two daughters, 
and poor deaf Richard, his son, looking doubly stupified. 
There they were, and seemed to have been sitting all the 
week. I could only reach out a hand to Mrs. Norris. 
Speaking was impossible in that mute chamber. By this 
time I hope it is all over with him. In him I have a loss 
the world cannot make up. He was my friend and my 
father's friend all the life I can remember. I seem to 
have made foolish friendships ever since. Those are 
friendships which outlive a second generation. Old as 
I am waxing, in his eyes I was still the child he first 
knew me. To the last he called me Charley. I have 
none to call me Charley now. He was the last link that 
bound me to the Temple. You are but of yesterday. 
In him seem to have died the old plainness of manners 
and singleness of heart. Letters he knew nothing of, 
nor did his reading extend beyond the pages of the 
Gejitlenians Magazine. Yet there was a pride of 
literature about him from being amongst books (he was 
librarian), and from some scraps of doubtful Latin which 
he had picked up in his office of entering students, that 
gave him very diverting airs of pedantry. Can I forget 
the erudite look with which, when he had been in vain 
trying to make out a black-letter text of Chaucer in the 
Temple Library, he laid it down and told me that — "in 
those old books, Charley, there is sometimes a deal of 
very indifferent spelling ; " and seemed to console himself 
in the reflection! His jokes, for he had his jokes, are 
now ended, but they were old trusty perennials, staples 
375 



Randal Norris 

that pleased after decies repetita, and were always as 
good as new. One song he had, which was reserved 
for the night of Christmas-day, which we always spent 
in the Temple. It was an old thing, and spoke of the 
flat bottoms of our foes and the possibility of their coming 
over in darkness, and alluded to threats of an invasion 
many years blown over; and when he came to the part 

" We'll still make 'em run, and we'll still make 'em sweat, 
In spite of the devil and Brussels Gazette ! " 

his eyes would sparkle as with the freshness of an im- 
pending event. And what is the Brussels Gazette 
now? I cry while I enumerate these trifles. "How 
shall we tell them in a stranger's ear?" His poor good 
girls will now have to receive their afflicted mother in 
an inaccessible hovel in an obscure village in Herts, 
where they have been long struggling to make a school 
without effect; and poor deaf Richard — and the more 
helpless for being so — is thrown on the wide world. 

My first motive in writing, and, indeed, in calling on 
you, was to ask if you were enough acquainted with any 
of the Benchers, to lay a plain statement before them of 
the circumstances of the family. I almost fear not, for 
you are of another hall. But if you can oblige me and 
my poor friend, who is now insensible to any favours, 
pray exert yourself. You cannot say too much good of 
poor Norris and his poor wife. — Yours ever, 

Charles Lamb 



Z7^ 



Sweet Comfort 

Jeremy Taylor tells John Evelyn of the death of a 
little son ^^:> ^^ ^c> ^^:> ^o ^;:> 

July 19, 1656 

DEARE SIR, — I am in some little disorder by reason 
of the death of a little child of mine, a boy that 
lately made us very glad; but now he rejoyces in his 
little orbe, while we thinke, and sigh, and long to be as 
safe as he is. . . . 



Jeremy Taylor wishes John Evelyn well -'^:> ^^::i^ 

September 15, 1656 

SIR, — I pray God continue your health and his 
blessings to you and your deare lady and pretty 
babies ; for which I am daily obliged to pray, and to 
use all opportunities by which I can signify that I 
am, deare Sir, your most affectionate and endeared 
servant, Jer. Taylor 



Jeremy Taylor comforts John Evelyn in the death 
of a son ^^^^ ^^^^ ^^^ ^^> ^=^ ^^^ 

DEARE SIR, — If dividing and sharing greifes were 
like the cutting of rivers, I dare say to you, you 
would find your streame much abated; for I account 
myselfe to have a great cause of sorrow, not onely in 
the diminution of the numbers of your joys and hopes, 
but in the losse of that pretty person, your strangely 
hopeful boy. I cannot tell all my owne sorrowes with- 
out adding to yours ; and the causes of my real sadnesse 
in your loss are so just and so reasonable, that I can 

in 



" Two bright Starres ** 

no otherwise comfort you but by telling you, that you 
have very great cause to mourne : so certaine it is that 
greife does propagate as fire does. You have enkindled 
my funeral torch, and by joining mine to yours, I doe 
but encrease the flame. Hoc me male urit, is the best 
signification of my apprehension of your sad story. But, 
Sir, I cannot choose, but I must hold another and a 
brighter flame to you, it is already burning in your 
heart; and if I can but remoove the darke side of the 
lanthorne, you have enoughe within you to warme 
yourself, and to shine to others. Remember, Sir, your 
two boyes are two bright starres, and their innocence 
is secured, and you shall never hear evil of them agayne. 
Their state is safe, and heaven is given to them upon 
very easy termes ; nothing but to be borne and die. It 
will cost you more trouble to get where they are ; and 
amongst other things one of the hardnesses will be, 
that you must overcome even this just and reasonable 
greife ; and, indeed, though the greife hath but too 
reasonable a cause, yet it is much more reasonable that 
you master it. For besides that they are no loosers, 
but you are the person that complaines, doe but con- 
sider what you would have suffered for their interest : 
you [would] have suffered them to goe from you, to be 
great princes in a strange country : and if you can be 
content to suffer your owne inconvenience for their 
interest, you command [commend?] your worthiest love, 
and the question of mourning is at an end. But you 
have said and done well, when you looke upon it as a 
rod of God ; and he that so smites here will spare 
hereafter : and if you, by patience and submission, 
imprint the discipline upon your own flesh, you kill the 
cause, and make the effect very tolerable ; because it 
is, in some sense, chosen, and therefore, in no sense, 
378 



Christian to Christian 

insufferable. Sir, if you doe not looke to it, time will 
snatch your honour from you, and reproach you for not 
effecting that by Christian philosophy which time will 
doe alone. And if you consider, that of the bravest 
men in the world, we find the seldomest stories of their 
children, and the apostles had none, and thousands of 
the worthiest persons, that sound most in story, died 
childlesse : you will find it is a rare act of Providence 
so to impose upon worthy men a necessity of per- 
petuating their names by worthy actions and discourses, 
governments and reasonings. If the breach be never 
repaired, it is because God does not see it fitt to be ; 
and if you will be of his mind, it will be much the 
better. But, Sir, you will pardon my zeale and passion 
for your comfort, I will readily confesse that you have 
no need of any discourse from me to comfort you. Sir, 
now you have an opportunity of serving God by passive 
graces ; strive to be an example and a comfort to your 
lady, and by your wise counsel and comfort, stand in 
the breaches of your owne family, and make it appeare 
that you are more to her than ten sons. Sir, by the 
assistance of Almighty God, I purpose to wait on you 
some time next weeke, that I may be a witnesse of 
your Christian courage and bravery ; and that I may 
see, that God never displeases you, as long as the main 
stake is preserved, I meane your hopes and confidences 
of heaven. Sir, I shal pray you for all that you can 
want, that is, some degrees of comfort and a present 
mind ; and shal alwayes doe you honour, and faine also 
would doe you service, if it were in the power, as it is 
in the affections and desires of, dear Sir, your most 
affectionate and obliged friend and servant, 

Jer. Taylor 
February 17, 1657-8 

379 



" As he opened a note which his servant brought to 
him, he said, ' An odd thought strikes me : we shall 
receive no letters in the grave." 

BoswELL (of Dr. Johnson) . 



XIX 
SIX POSTSCRIPTS 



POSTSCRIPT I 

Remarks on the Gentlest Art by good intellects ^^iv 

I. Dr. Johnson (in his Dictionary^ 

Letter 

2. A written message ; an epistle. 

They use to write it on the top of 
letters. — Shakespeare. 

I have a letter from her 
Of such contents as you will wonder 
at. — Shakespeare. 

When a Spaniard would write a letter by him, the 
Indian would marvel how it should be possible, that 
he, to whom he came, should be able to know all 
things. — Abbot. 

The asses will do very well for trumpeters, and the 
hares will make excellent letter carriers. — L' Est rangers 
Fables. 

The stile of letters ought to be free, easy, and natural ; 
as near approaching to familiar conversation as possible : 
the two best qualities in conversation are, good humour 
and good breeding ; those letters are therefore cer- 
tainly the best that show the most of these two 
qualities. — Walsh. 

382 



Sam in the City 

Mrs. P. B. has writ to me, and is one of the best letter 
writers I know ; very good sense, civility and friendship, 
without any stiffness or constraint. — Swift. 

II. Samuel and Antony Weller 

MR. WELLER having obtained leave of absence 
from Mr. Pickwick, who, in his then state of 
excitement and worry, was by no means displeased at 
being left alone, set forth, long before the appointed hour, 
and having plenty of time at his disposal, sauntered down 
as far as the Mansion House, where he paused and con- 
templated, with a face of great calmness and philosophy, 
the numerous cads and drivers of short stages who 
assemble near that famous place of resort, to the great 
terror and confusion of the old-lady population of these 
realms. Having loitered here, for half an hour or so, 
Mr. Weller turned, and began wending his way towards 
Leadenhall Market, through a variety of bye streets and 
courts. As he was sauntering away his spare time, and 
stopped to look at almost every object that met his 
gaze, it is by no means surprising that Mr. Weller should 
have paused before a small stationer's and print-seller\s 
window ; but without further explanation it does appear 
surprising that his eyes should have no sooner rested on 
certain pictures which were exposed for sale therein, than 
he gave a sudden start, smote his right leg with great 
vehemence, and exclaimed, with energy, " If it hadn't 
been for this, I should ha' forgot all about it, till it was 
too late ! " 

The particular picture on which Sam Weller's eyes 
were fixed, as he said this, was a highly-coloured repre- 
sentation of a couple of human hearts skewered together 
with an arrow, cooking before a cheerful fire, while a 
383 



The Valentine 

male and female cannibal in modern attire, the gentleman 
being clad in a blue coat and white trousers, and the lady 
in a deep red pelisse with a parasol of the same, were 
approaching the meal with hungry eyes, up a serpentine 
gravel path leading thereunto. A decidedly indelicate 
young gentleman, in a pair of wings and nothing else, was 
depicted as superintending the cooking ; a representation 
of the spire of the church in Langham Place, London, 
appeared in the distance ; and the whole formed a 
" valentine," of which, as a written inscription in the 
window testified, there was a large assortment within, 
which the shopkeeper pledged himself to dispose of, to 
his countrymen generally, at the reduced rate of one-and- 
sixpence each. 

'^ I should ha' forgot it ; I should certainly ha' forgot 
it ! " said Sam ; so saying, he at once stepped into the 
stationer's shop, and requested to be served with a sheet 
of the best gilt-edged letter-paper, and a hard-nibbed pen 
which could be warranted not to splutter. These articles 
having been promptly supplied, he walked on direct 
towards Leadenhall Market at a good round pace, very 
different from his recent lingering one. Looking round 
him, he there beheld a sign-board on which the painter's 
art had dehneated something remotely resembling a 
cerulean elephant with an aquiline nose in lieu of trunk. 
Rightly conjecturing that this was the Blue Boar himself, 
he stepped into the house, and inquired concerning his 
parent. 

" He won't be here this three-quarters of an hour or 
more," said the young lady who superintended the 
domestic arrangements of the Blue Boar. 

" Wery good, my dear," replied Sam. " Let me have 
nine-penn'oth o' brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, 
will you, miss ? " 

384 



A sympathetic Tongue 

The brandy-and-water luke, and the inkstand, having 
been carried into the little parlour, and the young lady 
having carefully flattened down the coals to prevent their 
blazing, and carried away the poker to preclude the possi- 
bility of the fire being stirred, without the full privity and 
concurrence of the Blue Boar being first had and obtained, 
Sam Weller sat himself down in a box near the stove, and 
pulled out the sheet of gilt-edged letter-paper, and the 
hard-nibbed pen. Then looking carefully at the pen to 
see that there were no hairs in it, and dusting down the 
table, so that there might be no crumbs of bread under 
the paper, Sam tucked up the cuffs of his coat, squared his 
elbows, and composed himself to write. 

To ladies and gentlemen who are not in the habit of 
devoting themselves practically to the science of penman- 
ship, writing a letter is no very easy task ; it being always 
considered necessary in such cases for the writer to re- 
cline his head on his left arm, so as to place his eyes as 
nearly as possible on a level with the paper, and, while 
glancing sideways at the letters he is constructing, to 
form with his tongue imaginary characters to correspond. 
These motions, although unquestionably of the greatest 
assistance to original composition, retard in some degree 
the progress of the writer ; and Sam had unconsciously 
been a full hour and a half writing words in small text, 
smearing out wrong letters wdth his little finger, and put- 
ting in new ones which required going over very often to 
render them visible through the old blots, when he was 
roused by the opening of the door and the entrance of his 
parent. 

'' Veil, Sammy," said the father. 

"Veil, my Prooshan Blue," responded the son, laying 
down his pen. "What's the last bulletin about mother- 
in-law?" 

2C 385 



A Father's Warnln 



g 



" Mrs. Veller passed a very good night, but is uncom- 
mon perwerse and unpleasant this mornin'. Signed upon 
oath, S. Veller, Esquire Senior. That's the last vun as was 
issued, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, untying his shawl. 

" No better yet? " inquired Sam. 

" All the symptoms aggerawated," replied Mr. Weller, 
shaking his head. "But wot's that you're a-doin' of.'* 
Pursuit of knowledge under difficulties, Sammy? " 

" I've done now," said Sam, with slight embarrassment ; 
"I've been a-writin'." 

" So I see," replied Mr. Weller. " Not to any young 
'ooman, I hope, Sammy?" 

" Why, it's no use a-sayin' it ain't," replied Sam ; " it's a 
walentine." 

" A what ! " exclaimed Mr. Weller, apparently horror- 
stricken by the word. 

"A walentine," replied Sam. 

" Samivel, Samivel," said Mr. Weller, in reproachful 
accents, " I didn't think you'd ha' done it. Arter the 
warnin' you've had o' your father's wicious propensities ; 
arter all I've said to you upon this here wery subject ; 
arter actiwally seein' and bein' in the company o' your 
own mother-in-law, vich I should ha' thought wos a moral 
lesson as no man could never ha' forgotten to his dyin' 
day! I didn't think you'd ha' done it, Sammy, I didn't 
think you'd ha' done it ! " These reflections were too 
much for the good old man. He raised Sam's tumbler to 
his lips and drank off its contents. 

" Wot's the matter now? "said Sam. 

" Nev'r mind, Sammy," replied Mr. Weller, " it'll be a 
wery agonisin' trial to me at my time of life, but I'm 
pretty tough, that's vun consolation, as the wery old turkey 
remarked wen the farmer said he wos afeerd he should be 
obliged to kill him for the London market." 
386 



Mr. Weller is mollified 

" Wot'll be a trial ? " inquired Sam. 

''To see you married, Sammy — to see you a dilluded 
wictim, and thinkin' in your innocence that it's all wery 
capital," replied Mr. Weller. '" It's a dreadful trial to a 
father's feelin's, that 'ere, Sammy." 

" Nonsense," said Sam. " I ain't a-goin' to get married, 
don't you fret yourself about that ; I know you're a judge 
of these things. Order in your pipe and I'll read you the 
letter. There ! " 

We cannot distinctly say whether it was the prospect 
of the pipe, or the consolatory reflection that a fatal dis- 
position to get married ran in the family, and couldn't be 
helped, which calmed Mr. Weller's feelings, and caused his 
grief to subside. We should be rather disposed to say 
that the result was attained by combining the two sources 
of consolation, for he repeated the second in a low tone, 
very frequently; ringing the bell meanwhile, to order in 
the first. He then divested himself of his upper coat ; 
and lighting the pipe and placing himself in front of the 
fire with his back towards it, so that he could feel its full 
heat, and recline against the mantelpiece at the same time, 
turned towards Sam, and, with a countenance greatly molli- 
fied by the softening influence of tobacco, requested him to 
" fire away." 

Sam dipped his pen into the ink to be ready for any cor- 
rections, and began with a very theatrical air — 

'"Lovely '" 

" Stop," said Mr. Weller, ringing the bell. '' A double 
glass o' the inwariable, my dear." 

" Very well, sir," replied the girl ; who with great quick- 
ness appeared, vanished, returned, and disappeared. 

" They seem to know your ways here," observed Sam. 

" Yes," replied his father, " I've been here before, in 
my time. Go on, Sammy." 

387 



" That ain't proper " 

" ^ Lovely creetur/ " repeated Sam. 

" 'Tain't in poetry, is it ? " interposed his father. 

" No, no," replied Sam. 

" Wery glad to hear it," said Mr. Weller. " Poetry's 
unnatVal ; no man ever talked poetry 'cept a beadle on 
boxin'-day, or Warren's blackin', or Rowland's oil, or some 
of them low fellows ; never you let yourself down to talk 
poetry, my boy. Begin again, Sammy." 

Mr. Weller resumed his pipe with critical solemnity, and 
Sam once more commenced, and read as follows : — 

" ' Lovely creetur I feel myself a damned ' " 

"That ain't proper," said Mr. Weller, taking his pipe 
from his mouth. 

" No ; it ain't ' damned,' " observed Sam, holding the 
letter up to the light, "it's 'shamed,' there's a blot there 
— ' I feel myself ashamed.' " 

" Wery good," said Mr. Weller. " Go on." 

" ' Feel myself ashamed, and completely cir ' I for- 
get what this here word is," said Sam, scratching his head 
with the pen, in vain attempts to remember. 

" Why don't you look at it, then ? " inquired Mr. Weller. 

*' So I am a-lookin' at it," replied Sam, " but there's 
another blot. Here's a '■ c,' and a ' i,' and a ' d.' " 

" Circumwented, p'raps," suggested Mr. Weller. 

" No, it ain't that," said Sam ; " ' circumscribed ' ; 
that's it." 

" That ain't as good a word as '• circumwented,' Sammy," 
said Mr. Weller gravely. 

"Think not?" said Sam. 

"Nothin' like it," repHed his father. 

" But don't you think it means more? " inquired Sam. 

" Veil p'raps it's a more tenderer word," said Mr. Weller, 
after a few moments' reflection. " Go on, Sammy." 

" '■ Feel myself ashamed and completely circumscribed 
388 



Euphues condemned 



in a-dressin' of you, for you are a nice gal and nothin^ 
but it.'" 

" That's a vvery pretty sentiment," said the elder Mr. 
Weller, removing his pipe to make way for the remark. 

" Yes, I think it is rayther good," observed Sam, highly 
flattered. 

" Wot I like in that 'ere style of writin'," said the elder 
Mr. Weller, " is, that there ain't no callin' names in it — 
no Wenuses, nor nothin' o' that kind. Wot's the good 
o' callin' a young 'ooman a Wenus or a angel, Sammy.'"' 

"Ah ! what, indeed? " replied Sam. 

"You might jist as well call her a grififin, or a unicorn, 
or a king's arms at once, which is wery well known to be 
a col-lection o' fabulous animals," added Mr. Weller. 

"Just as well," replied Sam. 

" Drive on, Sammy," said Mr. Weller. 

Sam complied wdth the request, and proceeded as 
follows ; his father continuing to smoke, with a mixed 
expression of wisdom and complacency, which was par- 
ticularly edifying. 

" ' Afore I see you, I thought all women was alike.' " 

" So they are," observed the elder Mr. Weller 
parenthetically. 

" ' But now,' " continued Sam, " ' now I find what a 
reg'lar soft-headed, inkred'lous turnip I must ha' been ; 
for there ain't nobody like you, though I like you better 
than nothin' at all.' I thought it best to make that 
rayther strong," said Sam, looking up. 

Mr. Weller nodded approvingly, and Sam resumed. 

"'So I take the privilidge of the day, Mary, my dear — 
as the gen'lhii'n in difificulties did, ven he valked out of a 
Sunday — to tell you that the first and only time I see 
you, your likeness was took on my hart in much quicker 
time and brighter colours than ever a likeness was took 
389 



"The great Art o* Letter-writin' " 

by the profeel macheen (wich pVaps you may have heerd 
on Mary my dear) altho it does finish a portrait and put 
the frame and glass on complete, with a hook at the end 
to hang it up by, and all in two minutes and a quarter.'' " 

" I am afeerd that werges on the poetical, Sammy,"*" 
said Mr. Weller dubiously. 

" No, it don't," replied Sam, reading on very quickly, 
to avoid contesting the point — 

" ' Except of me Mary my dear as your walentine and 
think over what I've said. — My dear Mary I will now 
conclude.' That's all," said Sam. 

" That's rather a sudden pull-up, ain't it, Sammy ? " 
inquired Mr. Weller. 

"Not a bit on it," said Sam; "she'll vish there wos 
more, and that's the great art o' letter-writin'." 

"Well," said Mr. Weller, "there's somethin' in that; 
and I wish your mother-in-law 'ud only conduct her 
conwersation on the same gen-teel principle. Ain't you 
a-goin' to sign it? " 

" That's the difficulty," said Sam ; " I don't know what 
to sign it." 

" Sign it — '• Veller,' " said the oldest surviving proprietor 
of that name. 

"Won't do," said Sam. "Never sign a walentine with 
your own name." 

" Sign it ' Pickwick,' then," said Mr. Weller ; " it's a 
wery good name, and a easy one to spell." 

" The wery thing," said Sam. " I could end with a 
werse ; what do you think ? " 

"I don't like it, Sam," rejoined Mr. Weller. "I never 
know'd a respectable coachman as wrote poetry, 'cept 
one, as made an affectin' copy o' werses the night afore 
he was hung for a highway robbery ; and he wos only a 
Cambervell man, so even that's no rule." 
390 



Another Father's Views 

But Sam was not to be dissuaded from the poetical 
idea that had occurred to him, so he signed the letter — 

" Your love-sick 
Pickwick." 

And having folded it, in a very intricate manner, 
squeezed a downhill direction in one corner : "To 
Mary, Housemaid, at Mr. Nupkins"s, Mayor's, Ipswich. 
Suffolk " ; and put it into his pocket, wafered, and ready 
for the general post. 

Charles Dickens 



III. Gregory (in a letter to Nicobulus) 

OF those who write epistles, (since you ask for my 
sentiments on this subject) my opinion is, that 
some make their letters too lengthy, and others far too 
short for the occasion. Both these depart from the 
just mean, as archers miss the mark, whether they shoot 
beyond it, or come short of it. For the error is the same, 
though it is committed in opposite ways. The measure 
of letter-writing is the requirement of the subject matter. 
For we neither ought to be long where there is not much 
to say, nor brief where there is a press of matter. What 
then? Is it proper to measure wisdom by the Persian 
line, or by the cubits of children, and to write so uncom- 
pletely as to write, in fact, nothing ; emulating the 
noontide shadows which lie immediately before us at our 
feet, the limits whereof are scarcely visible, and are 
rather glanced at than seen, and are, if I may so say, the 
shadows of shades ? Whereas the right proceeding is to 
avoid the excess in either way, and to adopt a middle 
course. Concerning the concise method of writing this 
is my opinion. 

391 



The best Epistle 

Concerning perspicuity this is plain, that we should 
avoid as much as possible the style of an essay, and aim 
rather at a familiar phraseology, and to say all in a few 
words. 

That is the best epistle, and the most happily com- 
posed, which is calculated to bring its matter home both 
to the learned and to the unlearned, — to the one as being 
accommodated in language to the level of the multitude ; 
and to the other, as being raised in thought above that 
level ; that which is understood as soon as read. For it 
is equally incongruous that a riddle should be plain, and 
that an epistle should need interpretation. 

The third requisite in letter-writing is grace of expres- 
sion. For we must avoid a diction dry and harsh, and 
expressions that are coarse, inelegant, or dull ; as 
where a letter is devoid of pointed sentences, adages, 
apophthegms, yes, and of jests too, and enigmatical 
allusions, by which this sort of composition is rendered 
more pleasing. But let us avoid excess in the use of 
these things. By the want of them we are dull and 
insipid; by the adoption of them we are in danger of 
being carried too far. We should use them to the same 
extent as purple is admitted into the texture of woven 
garments. We may introduce figures, too, but these should 
be few, and not immodest. But let us cast to the sophists 
antitheses, jingling words, and balanced sentences with 
similar terminations. Or if we do occasionally introduce 
them, let it be in a playful way, and not when we are 
treating of serious matters. I will end my observations 
on this subject by mentioning what I once heard from a 
man of wit about the eagle. When the birds were 
contending for the throne, and som.e came adorned in 
one way, some in another, it was his greatest ornament 
to appear before them unadorned. This also should 
392 



The Tongue and the Pen 

be especially observed in epistles, — to be without the 
affectation of ornament, and to come as close as possible 
to nature. Thus far, in an epistle, I have sent you my 
sentiments concerning epistles. But a subject such as 
this, perhaps, is not the province of one who ought to be 
engaged in higher matters. What else belongs to the 
subject you may search for yourself with your quickness 
of apprehension ; and those who are wise in these 
matters will assist your enquiries. 



IV. James Howell 

IT was a quaint difference the Ancients did put 'twixt a 
Letter^ and an Oration ; that the one should be 
attir'd like a Woman, the other like a Man : the latter 
of the two is allowed large-side Robes, as long Periods, 
Parentheses, Similes, Examples, and other parts of 
Rhetorical flourishes : But a Letter or Epistle should 
be short-coated, and closely couch'd ; a Hungerlin be- 
comes a Letter more handsomly than a Gown. Inde'ed 
we should write as we speak ; and that's a true familiar 
Letter which expresseth one's Mind, as if he were dis- 
coursing with the Party to whom he writes in succinct 
and short Terms. The Toiigue and the Pen, are both 
of them Interpreters of the Mind; but I hold the Pen 
to be the more faithful of the two : The Tongue in udo 
posita, being seated in a moist slippery place may fail 
and falter in her sudden extemporal Expressions ; but 
the Pen having a greater advantage of premeditation, 
is not so subject to error, and leaves things behind it 
upon firm and authentic record. 

393 



Colloquial Eloquence 

V. Sir James Mackintosh 

WHEN a woman of feeling, fancy, and accomplish- 
ment has learned to converse with ease and grace, 
from long intercourse with the most polished society, and 
when she writes as she speaks, she must write letters as 
they ought to be written, if she has acquired just as much 
habitual correctness as is reconcilable with the air of 
negligence. A moment of enthusiasm, a burst of feeling, 
a flash of eloquence may be allowed, but the intercourse 
of society, either in conversation or in letters, allows no 
more. Though interdicted from the long continued use 
of elevated language, they are not without a resource. 
There is a part of language which is disdained by the 
pedant or the disclaimer, and which both if they knew 
its difficulty would dread ; it is formed of the most 
familiar phrases and turns in daily use by the generality 
of men, and is full of energy and vivacity, bearing upon 
it the mark of those keen feelings and strong passions 
from which it springs. It is the employment of such 
phrases which produces what may be called colloquial 
eloquence. Conversation and letters may be thus raised 
to any degree of animation without departing from their 
character. Anything may be said, if it be spoken in the 
tone of society ; the highest guests are welcome, if they 
come in the easy undress of the club ; the strongest 
metaphor appears without violence, if it is familiarly 
expressed ; and we the more easily catch the warmest 
feeling, if we perceive that it is intentionally lowered in 
expression out of condescension to our calmer temper. 
It is thus that harangues and declamations, the last proof 
of bad taste and bad manners in conversation, are 
avoided, while the fancy and the heart find the means 
of pouring forth all their stores. To meet this despised 
394 



"So unlike Author-craft" 

part of language in a polished dress, and producing all 
the effects of wit and eloquence, is a constant source of 
agreeable surprise. This is increased when a few bolder 
and higher words are happily wrought into the texture 
of this familiar eloquence. To find what seems so 
unlike author-craft in a book, raises the pleasing 
astonishment to the highest degree. . . . Letters must 
not be on a subject. 

VI. Dr. Grimstone 

« T^ONT begin to write yet, any of you," said the 
-L^ Doctor ; " I have a few words to say to you first. 
In most cases, and as a general rule, I think it wisest to 
let every boy commit to paper whatever his feelings may 
dictate to him. I wish to claim no censorship over the 
style and diction of your letters. But there have been 
so many complaints lately from the parents of some of 
the less advanced of you, that I find myself obliged to 
make a change. Your father particularly, Richard 
Bultitude," he added, turning suddenly upon the unlucky 
Paul, '' has complained bitterly of the slovenly tone and 
phrasing of your correspondence ; he said very justly 
that they would disgrace a stable-boy, and unless I could 
induce you to improve them, he begged he might not be 
annoyed by them in future." 

It was by no means the least galling part of Mr. Bulti- 
tude's trials, that former forgotten words and deeds of 
his in his original condition were constantly turning up at 
critical seasons, and plunging him deeper into the morass 
just when he saw some prospect of gaining firm ground. 

So on this occasion, he did remember that, being in a 
more than usually bad temper one day last year, he had, 
on receiving a sprawling, ill-spelt application from Dick 
395 



Jolland the Cynic 

for more pocket money, to buy fireworks for the 5th of 
November, written to make some such complaint to the 
schoolmaster. He waited anxiously for the Doctor's next 
words ; he might want to read the letters before they 
were sent off, in which case Paul would not be displeased, 
for it would be an easier and less dangerous way of put- 
ting the Doctor in possession of the facts. 

But his complaints were to be honoured by a much 
more effectual remedy, for it naturally piqued the Doctor 
to be told that boys instructed under his auspices wrote 
like stable-boys. ^^ However," he went on, " I wish your 
people at home to be assured from time to time of your 
welfare, and to prevent them from being shocked and 
distressed in future by the crudity of your communica- 
tions, I have drawn up a short form of letter for the use 
of the lower boys in the second form — which I shall now 
proceed to dictate. Of course all boys in the first form, 
and all in the second above Bultitude and Jolland, will 
write as they please, as usual. Richard, I expect you 
to take particular pains to write this out neatly. Are 
you all ready ? Very well, then . . . now " ; and he read 
out the following letter, slowly — 

''My dear Parents (or parent according to circum- 
stances), comma" (all of which several took down most 
industriously) — "You will be rejoiced to hear that, 
having arrived with safety at our destination, we have 
by this time fully resumed our customary regular round 
of earnest work relieved and sweetened by hearty play." 
("Have you all got 'hearty play' down? " inquired the 
Doctor rather suspiciously, while Jolland observed in 
an undertone that it would take some time to get M^/ 
down.) " I hope, I trust I may say without undue 
conceit, to have made considerable progress in my 
school-tasks before I rejoin the family circle for the 
396 



The Pious ^neas 

Easter vacation, as I think you will admit when I inform 
you of the programme we intend'' (-"D-V. in brackets 
and capital letters" — as before, this was taken down 
verbatim by Jolland, who probably knew very much 
better), "intend to work out during the term. 

"In Latin, the class of which I am a member propose 
to thoroughly master the first book of Virgil's magnifi- 
cent Epic, need I say I refer to the soul-moving story 
of the Pious ^neas ? '' (Jolland was understood by his 
near neighbours to remark that he thought the explana- 
tion distinctly advisable), "whilst, in Greek, we have 
already commenced the thrilling account of the Afta- 
basis of Xenophon, that master of strategy ! nor shall 
we, of course, neglect in either branch of study the 
syntax and construction of those two noble languages " 
— (" noble languages ! " echoed the writers mechan- 
ically, contriving to insinuate a touch of irony into the 
words). 

" In German, under the able tutelage of Herr Stoh- 
wasser, who, as I may possibly have mentioned to you 
in casual conversation, is a graduate of the University 
of Heidelberg " (" and a silly old hass," added Jolland, 
parenthetically), "we have resigned ourselves to the spell 
of the Teutonian Shakespeare " (there was much differ- 
ence of opinion as to the manner of spelling the 
" Teutonian Shakespeare "■) " as, in my opinion, Schiller 
may be not inaptly termed, and our French studies 
comprise such exercises, and short poems and tales, as 
are best calculated to aff"ord an insight into the intri- 
cacies of the Gallic tongue. 

" But I would not have you imagine, my dear parents 
(or parent, as before), that, because the claims of the 
intellect have been thus amply provided for, the require- 
ments of the body are necessarily overlooked ! 
397 



" Chevy '* 

"I have no intention of becoming a mere bookworm, 
and, on the contrary, we have had one excessively brisk 
and pleasant game at football already this season, and 
should, but for the unfortunate inclemency of the 
weather, have engaged again this afternoon in the 
mimic warfare. 

" In the playground our favourite diversion is the game 
of 'chevy,' so called from that engagement famed in 
ballad and history (I allude to the battle of Chevy Chase), 
and indeed, my dear parents, in the rapid alternations of 
its fortunes and the diversity of its incident, the game (to 
my mind) bears a striking resemblance to the accounts of 
that ever-memorable contest. 

" I fear I must now relinquish my pen, as the time 
allotted for correspondence is fast waning to its close, 
and tea-time is approaching. Pray give my kindest 
remembrances to all my numerous friends and relatives, 
and accept my fondest love and affection for yourselves 
and the various other members of the family circle. 

" I am, I am rejoiced to say, in the enjoyment of 
excellent health, and surrounded as I am by congenial 
companions, and employed in interesting and agreeable 
pursuits, it is superfluous to add that I am happy. 

" And now, my dear parents, believe me, your dutiful 
and affectionate son, so and so." 

The Doctor finished his dictation with a roll in his 
voice, as much as to say, " I think that will strike your 
respective parents as a chaste and classical composition ; 
I think so ! " 

From J/i'ce Versd^ by F. Anstey 



398 



POSTSCRIPT II 

The earliest letter 

The Psalmist takes steps to remove an obstacle 

[Circa B.C. 1035] 
(David to Joab, sent by the hand of Uriah) 

SET ye Uriah in the forefront of the hottest battle, 
and retire ye from him, that he may be smitten, 
and die. 



399 



POSTSCRIPT III 

The earliest letter by an English woman. Without 
postscript 

Lady Pelham informs Sir John Pelham of the siege of 
Pevensey Castle. The first letter extant by an 
English woman. (Spelling modernised) 

[1399] 

MY DEAR LORD, — I recommend me to your high 
lordship, with heart and body and all my poor 
might. And with all this I thank you as my dear Lord, 
dearest and best beloved of all earthly lords. I say 
for me, and thank you, my dear Lord, with all this that 
I said before of [for] your comfortable letter that you 
sent me from Pontefract, that came to me on Mary 
Magdalen's day : for by my troth I was never so glad 
as when I heard by your letter that ye were strong 
enough with the Grace of God for to keep you from 
the malice of your enemies. And, dear Lord, if it like 
to your high Lordship that as soon as ye might that I 
might hear of your gracious speed, which God Almighty 
continue and increase. And, my dear Lord, if it like 
you to know 7ny fare, I am here laid by in a manner 
400 



The Siege 

of a siege with the County of Sussex, Surrey, and a 
great parcel of Kent, so that I may not [go] out nor 
no victuals get me, but with much hard. Wherefore, 
my dear, if it like you by the advice of your wise 
counsel for to set remedy of the salvation of your castle 
and withstand the mahce of the shires aforesaid. And 
also that ye be fully informed of the great malice-workers 
in these shires which have no despitefully wrought to you, 
and to your castle, to your men and to your tenants ; 
for this country have they wasted for a great while. 

Farewell, my dear Lord! the Holy Trinity keep you 
from your enemies, and soon send me good tidings of 
you. Written at Pevensey, in the castle, on St. Jacob's 
-^y last past, by your own poor J. Pelham 

To my true Lord. 



2D 401 



POSTSCRIPT IV 



The Baboo as letter-writer 

I 

MOST RESPECTED SIR, — I fall at your feet; if 
you please save my life and make me happy. 
I have the strongest desire to have the Biscyle to ride 
on. Through the contemplation, I have no sleep either 
in the day or in the night. I have been reduced to 
half, and if I continue the same course, I do not knovvr 
what my fate will be. I have no money to buy it. 
Piety has never become fruitless, and so the generosity. 
Fame should remain after the man on the world, and 
this is the duty which man should do. I have been 
submitted myself to your honour, therefore your honour 
should do whatever your honour likes. Your honour 
should not think that you present me only a Biscyle 
worth of sum rupees, but my life which will perhaps 
serve your honour for your life. Now I have become 
like a helpless sick person and you have become a 
doctor. If you give me medicine I shall recover, other- 
wise not. Please be kind to me. God will be pleased 
with you which is necessary for a man to be happy. 
Let God excite tenderness in your honour's heart. Let 
402 



Various Desires 

your great kind and noble mind order your generous 
hands to present this miserable man with your most 
beautiful " Biscyle." — Sir, I am your's obediently, etc. 



II 

HONOURABLE SIR, — Kindly excuse this poor thy 
servant from attending on your Honour's office 
this day, as I am suffering from the well-known disease 
commonly called ache of the interior economy, and I 
shall ever pray. — Yours ever painful, 

Ram Chunder 

P.S. — Oh, death, where is thy sting? 



Ill 

MOST EXALTED SIR, — It is with most habitutily 
devout expressions of my sensitive respect that I 
approach the clemency of your masterful position with 
the self-dispraising utterance of my esteem and the 
also forgotten-by-myself assurance that in my own mind 
I shall be freed from the assumption that I am asking 
unpardonable donations if I assert that I desire a short 
respite from my exertions, as I am suffering from three 
boils, as per margin. I have the honourable delight of 
subscribing myself your exalted reverence's servitor, 

Janjanbol Panjamjaub 

IV 

MOST HONORD AND LITTERAL SIR, — I am 
poor man now taking trouble to write Your 
Honour. I am too much fond of mother tongue, a/ias 
403 



"A damnable Miserable" 

English, and therefore being profoundly desirous to be 
master of this tongue, I am writing you. I am m.arried 
man, my wife by the blessing of God has been too 
fruitful and thereby multiplying many sons and daughters, 
children causing severest distress to this poor petitioner's 
pockets in the pecuniary manner. But nevertheless I 
am strong minded and with energy and time will over- 
throw all the difficulties which do at present beset my 
matrimonial bed. As, Sir, I cannot afford to purchase your 
universal renowned paper must asking of your Honour 
a great and magnanimous favour to letting me have free 
paper in order to magnify my intellect and in time 
become perhaps a author of some book or books may 
be. I will then remember your kind Honour's great 
kindness and will ever circumcise myself to Your 
Honour your dutiful tutor and other things. I will 
write articles to your paper as payment can't give. I 
will make your Honour present of book when I write. 



RESPECTFULLY SHEWETH, — That your hon- 
our's servant is poor man in agricultural be- 
haviour, and much depends on season for the staff of 
life, therefore he prays that you will favour upon him, and 
take him into your saintly service, that he may have 
some permanently labour for the support of his soul and 
his family ; wherefore he falls upon his family's bended 
knees, and implores to you of this merciful consid- 
eration to a damnable miserable, like your honour's 
unfortunate petitioner. That your lordship's honour's 
servant was too much poorly during the last rains and was 
resuscitated by much medicines which made magnificent 
excavations in the coffers of your honourable servant, 
404 



Family Troubles 



whose means are circumcised by his large family, consist- 
ing of five female women, and three masculine, the last 
of which are still taking milk from mother's chest, and 
are damnably noiseful through pulmonary catastrophe in 
tneir interior abdomen. Besides the above-named, an 
additional birth is, through grace of God, very shortly 
occurring to my beloved wife of bosom. . . . That your 
honour's damnable servant was officiating in several 
capacities during past generations, but has become too 
much old for espousing hard labour in this time of his 
bodily life ; but was not drunkard, nor fornicator, nor 
thief, nor swindler, nor any of these kind, but was always 
pious, affectionate to his numerous family consisting of 
the aforesaid five female women, and three males, the 
last of whom are still milking the parental mother. That 
your generous honour's lordship's servant was entreating 
to the Magistrate for employment in Municipality to 
remove filth, etc., but was not granted the petitioner. 
Therefore your generous lordship will give to me some 

easy work, in the Department, or something of this 

sort. For which act of kindness your noble lordship's 
poor servant will, as in duty bound, pray for your lon- 
gevity and procreativeness. I have the honour to be, sir, 
your most obedient servant. 



405 



POSTSCRIPT V 

Examples of the Gentlest Art drawn from works of 
fiction 



Fanny Squeers describes Nicholas Nickleby's outrage 

DoTHEBOYS Hall, Thursday Mo7'ning 

SIR, — My pa requests me to write to you. The 
doctors considering it doubtful whether he will ever 
recuvver the use of his legs which prevents his holding a 
pen. 

We are in a state of mind beyond everything, and 
my pa is one mask of brooscs both blue and green like- 
wise two forms are steepled in his Goar. We were 
kimpelled to have him carried down into the kitchen 
where he now lays. You will judge from this that he has 
been brought very low. 

When your nevew that you recommended for a teacher 
had done this to my pa and jumped upon his body with 
his feet and also langwedge which I will not pollewt my 
pen with describing, he assaulted my ma with dreadful 
violence, dashed her to the earth, and drove her back 
comb several inches into her head. A very little more 
406 



Fanny's Postscript 

and it must have entered her skull. We have a medical 
certifiket that if it had, the tortershell would have affected 
the brain. 

Me and my brother were then the victims of his 
feury since which we have suffered very much which leads 
us to the arrowing belief that we received some injury in 
our insides, especially as no marks of violence are visible 
externally. I am screaming out loud all the time I write 
and so is my brother, which takes off my attention rather, 
and I hope will excuse mistakes. 

The monster having sasiated his thirst for blood ran 
away, taking with him a boy of desperate caracter that 
he had excited to rebellyon, and a garnet ring belonging 
to my ma, and not having been apprehended by the 
constables is supposed to have been took up by some 
stage-coach. My pa begs that if he comes to you the 
ring may be returned, and that you will let the thief and 
assassin go, as if we prosecuted him he would only be 
transported, and if he is let go he is sure to be hung 
before long, which will save us trouble, and be much 
more satisfactory. — Hoping to hear from you when 
convenient, I remain, yours and cetrer, 

Fanny Squeers 

F.S. — I pity his ignorance and despise him. 

II 
Mr. Micawber's first letter to David Copperfield 

MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND, — The die is cast — 
all is over. Hiding the ravages of care with a 
sickly mask of mirth, I have not informed you, this 
evening, that there is no hope of the remittance! 
Under these circumstances, alike humiliating to endure, 
407 



A last Communication 

humiliating to contemplate, and humiliating to relate, 
I have discharged the pecuniary liability contracted at 
this establishment, by giving a note of hand, made 
payable fourteen days after date, at my residence, 
Pentonville, London. When it becomes due, it will 
not be taken up. The result is destruction. The bolt 
is impending, and the tree must fall. 

Let the wretched man who now addresses you, my 
dear Copperfield, be a beacon to you through life. 
He writes with that intention, and in that hope. If 
he could think himself of so much use, one gleam of 
day might, by possibility, penetrate into the cheerless 
dungeon of his remaining existence — though his lon- 
gevity is, at present (to say the least of it), extremely 
problematical. 

This is the last communication, my dear Copperfield, 
you will ever receive from the beggared outcast, 

WiLKINS MiCAWBER 
III 

Mr. Micawber has prospects 

MY DEAR COPPERFIELD, — You may possibly 
not be unprepared to receive the intimation 
that something has turned up. I may have mentioned 
to you on a former occasion that I was in expectation 
of such an event. 

I am about to establish myself in one of the provincial 
towns of our favoured island (where the society may be 
described as a happy admixture of the agricultural and 
the clerical), in immediate connection with one of the 
learned professions. Mrs. Micawber and our oiTspring 
will accompany me. Our ashes, at a future period, 
408 



A later Communication 

will probably be found commingled in the cemetery 
attached to the venerable pile, for which the spot to 
which I refer has acquired a reputation, shall I say 
from China to Peru? 

In bidding adieu to the modern Babylon, where we 
have undergone many vicissitudes, I trust not ignobly, 
Mrs. Micawber and myself cannot disguise from our 
minds that we part, it may be for years and it may be 
for ever, with an individual linked by strong associations 
to the altar of our domestic life. If, on the eve of such 
a departure, you will accompany our mutual friend, Mr. 
Thomas Traddles, to our present abode, and there 
reciprocate the wishes natural to the occasion, you will 
confer a Boon on one who is ever yours, 

WiLKiNS Micawber 

IV 

Mrs. Micawber expresses her fears and hopes 

Y best regards to Mr. Thomas Traddles, and if 
he should still remember one who formerly had 
the happiness of being well acquainted with him, may 
I beg a few moments of his leisure time ? I assure 
Mr. T. T. that I would not intrude upon his kindness, 
were I in any other position than on the confines of 
distraction. 

Though harrowing to myself to mention, the alienation 
of Mr. Micawber (formerly so domesticated) from his 
wife and family, is the cause of my addressing my un- 
happy appeal to Mr. Traddles, and soliciting his best 
indulgence. Mr. T. can form no adequate idea of the 
change in Mr. Micawber's conduct, of his wildncss, of 
his violence. It has gradually augmented, until it 
assumes the appearance of aberration of intellect. 
409 



M 



Mr. Micawber's Paroxysms 

Scarcely a day passes, I assure Mr. Traddles, on which 
some paroxysm does not take place. Mr. T. will not 
require me to depict my feelings, when I inform him 
that I have become accustomed to hear Mr. Micawber 
assert that he has sold himself to the D. Mystery 
and secrecy have long been his principal characteristic, 
have long replaced unlimited confidence. The slightest 
provocation, even being asked if there is anything 
he would prefer for dinner, causes him to express a 
wish for a separation. Last night, on being childishly 
solicited for twopence, to buy "lemon-stunners" — a 
local sweetmeat — he presented an oyster-knife at the 
twins ! 

I entreat Mr. Trad dies to bear with me in entering 
into these details. Without them, Mr. T. would indeed 
find it difficult to form the faintest conception of my 
heart-rending situation. 

May I now venture to confide to Mr. T. the purport 
of my letter ? Will he now allow me to throw myself 
on his friendly consideration ? Oh yes, for I know his 
heart ! 

The quick eye of affection is not easily blinded, when 
of the female sex. Mr. Micawber is going to London. 
Though he studiously concealed his hand, this morning 
before breakfast, in writing the direction-card which he 
attached to the little brown valise of happier days, the 
eagle-glance of matrimonial anxiety detected d, o, n, dis- 
tinctly traced. The West-end destination of the coach, 
is the Golden Cross. Dare I fervently implore Mr. T. 
to see my misguided husband, and to reason with him ? 
Dare I ask Mr. T. to endeavour to step in between 
Mr. Micawber and his agonised family ? Oh no, for that 
would be too much ! 

If Mr. Copperfield should yet remember one un- 
410 



Re-sealing of the Doom 

known to fame, will Mr. T. take charge of my unalter- 
able regards and similar entreaties ? In any case, he 
will have the benevolence to consider this conuminication 
strictly private^ and on Jio account whatever to be alluded 
to, however distafitly, in the presence of Mr. Micawber. 
If Mr. T. should ever reply to it (which I cannot but 
feel to be 7nost improbable), a letter addressed to M. E., 
Post Office, Canterbury, will be fraught with less painful 
consequences than any addressed immediately to one, 
who subscribes herself, in extreme distress, Mr. Thomas 
Traddles's respectful friend and suppliant, 

Emma Micawber 

V 

Mr. Micawber at the two extremes 

Canterbury, Friday 

MY DEAR MADAM, AND COPPERFIELD, — 
The fair land of promise lately looming on the 
horizon is again enveloped in impenetrable mists, and 
for ever withdrawn from the eyes of a drifting wretch 
whose Doom is sealed! 

Another writ has been issued (in His Majesty's High 
Court of King's Bench at Westminster), in another cause 
of Heep v. Micawber, and the defendant in that cause 
is the prey of the sheriff having legal jurisdiction in this 
bailiwick. 

" Now's the day, and now's the hour, 
See the front of battle lour, 
See approach proud EDWARD'S power — 
Chains and slavery! " 

Consigned to which, and to a speedy end (for mental 
torture is not supportable beyond a certain point, and 
411 



" The height of earthly Bliss ** 

that point I feel I have attained), my course is run. 
Bless you, bless you ! Some future traveller, visiting, 
from motives of curiosity, not unmingled, let us hope, 
with sympathy, the place of confinement allotted to 
debtors in this city, may, and I trust will, ponder, as he 
traces on its walls, inscribed with a rusty nail, the 
obscure initials, W. M. 

P.S. — I re-open this to say that our common friend,* 
Mr. Thomas Traddles (who has not yet left us, and is ■ 
looking extremely well), has paid the debt and costs, in 
the noble name of Miss Trotwood ; and that myself and 
family are at the height of earthly bliss. 

VI 

Little George Osborne gives his mother the news of 
the great fight at Dr. SwishtaiPs 

Sugarcane House, Richmond, March i8 — 

DEAR MAMA, — I hope you are quite well. I should 
be much obliged to you to send me a cake and 
five shillings. There has been a fight here between 
Cuff & Dobbin. Cuff, you know, was the Cock of the 
School. They fought thirteen rounds, and Dobbin 
Licked. So Cuff is now Only Second Cock. The fight 
was about me. Cuff was licking me for breaking a 
bottle of milk, and Figs wouldn't stand it. We call 
him Figs because his father is a grocer — Figs and 
Rudge, Thames St., City — I think as he fought for me 
you ought to buy your Tea and Sugar at his father's. 
Cuff goes home every Saturday, but can't this, be- 
cause he has 2 Black eyes. He has a white pony 
to come and fetch him, and a groom in livery on a 
412 



From Pride and Prejudice 

bay mare. I wish my papa would let me have a pony, 
and I am, your dutiful Son, 

George Sedley Osborne 

P.S. — Give my love to little Emmy. I am cutting her 
out a Coach in cardboard. Please not a seed-cake, but a 
plum-cake. 

VII 

Mr. Bennet prepares the family for Mr. Collins's 
first letter 

'• T HOPE, my dear," said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as 

J- they were at breakfast the next morning, '' that 
you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have 
reason to expect an addition to our family party." 

"Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody 
that is coming I am sure unless Charlotte Lucas should 
happen to call in — and I hope iriy dinners are good 
enough for her." 

" I do not believe she often sees such at home. The 
person of whom I speak is a gentleman and a stranger," 

Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. 

"A gentleman and a stranger? It is Mr. Bingley, 
I am sure. Why, Jane, you never dropt a word of this^ 
you sly thing ! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely 
glad to see Mr. Bingley. But, good Lord, how un- 
lucky, there is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. 
Lydia, my love, ring the bell ; I must speak to Hill this 
moment." 

'• It is not Mr. Bingley," said her husband ; " it is a 
person whom I never saw in the whole course of my 
hfe." 

This roused a general astonishment ; and he had the 
413 



Mrs. Bennet and the Entail 

pleasure of being eagerly questioned by his wife and 
five daughters at once. 

After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, 
he thus explained — "About a month ago I received this 
letter ; and about a fortnight ago I answered it, for I 
thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early 
attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when 
I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as 
he pleases." 

" Oh ! my dear," cried his wife, " I cannot bear to hear 
that mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. 
I do think it is the hardest thing in the world, that your 
estate should be entailed away from your own children ; 
and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried to 
do something or other about it." 

Jane and Elizabeth attempted to explain to her the 
nature of an entail. They had often attempted it before, 
but it was a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond 
the reach of reason, and she continued to rail bitterly 
against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a 
family of five daughters, in favour of a man whom 
nobody cared anything about. 

" It certainly is a most iniquitous affair," said Mr. 
Bennet, " and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt 
of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his 
letter you may perhaps be a little softened by his manner 
of expressing himself." 

" No, that I am sure I shall not ; and I think it was 
very impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very 
hypocritical. I hate such false friends. Why could not 
he keep on quarrelling with you, as his father did before 
him .? " 

"Why, indeed, he does seem to have had some filial 
scruples on that head, as you will hear. 
414 



I 



Mr. Collins's Letter 

" HUNSFORD, NEAR WeSTERHAM, KeNT 

October 15 
« '"pNEAR SIR, — The disagreement subsisting between 

J->' yourself and my late honoured father always gave 
me much uneasiness, and since I have had the mis- 
fortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal 
the breach ; but for some time I was kept back by my 
own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to 
his memory for me to be on good terms with any one 
with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.' 
— "There Mrs. Bennet." — 'My mind, however, is now 
made up on the subject, for having received ordination 
at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished 
by the patronage of the Right Hon. Lady Catherine 
de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has perferred 
me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall 
be my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful 
respect towards her Ladyship, and be ever ready to 
perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted 
by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, 
I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing 
of peace in all families within the reach of my influence ; 
and on these grounds. I flatter myself that my present 
overtures of goodwill are highly commendable, and that 
the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Long- 
bourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your side, and 
not lead you to regret the offered olive-branch. 

" ' I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the 
means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave 
to apologise for it, as well as to assure you of my readi- 
ness to make them every possible amends — but of this 
hereafter. If you should have no objections to receive 
me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of 
waiting on you and your family, Monday, Nov. i8th, 
415 



Mr. Bennet has great Hopes 

by four o'clock, and shall probably trespass on your 
hospitality till the Saturday se'nnight following, which 
I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine 
is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a 
Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged 
to do the duty of the day. — I remain, dear Sir, with 
respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your 
well-wisher and friend, William Collins ' 

" At four o'clock, therefore, v^^e may expect this peace- 
making gentleman," said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the 
letter. " He seems to be a most conscientious and polite 
young man, upon my word, and I doubt not will prove 
a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine 
should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again. 
There is some sense in what he says about the girls, 
however, and if he is disposed to make them any amends, 
I shall not be the person to discourage him." 

" Though it is difficult," said Jane, " to guess in what 
way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks 
our due, the wish is certainly to his credit." 

Elizabeth was chiefly struck with his extraordinary 
deference for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention 
of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners 
whenever it was required. " He must be an oddity, I 
think," said she. " I cannot make him out. There is 
something very pompous in his style, — and what can 
he mean by apologising for being next in the entail? 
We cannot suppose he would help it if he could. Can 
he be a sensible man. Sir?" 

"No, my dear; I think not. I have great hopes of 
finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of 
servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises 
well. I am impatient to see him." 
416 



Mr. Collins writes again 

"In point of composition," said Mary, " his letter does 
not seem defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps 
is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed." 

VIII 
Mr. Collins urges Mr. Bennet to play the (ather 

MY DEAR SIR, — I feel myself called upon, by our 
relationship, and my situation in life, to condole 
with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering 
under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter 
from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. 
Collins and myself sincerely sympathise with you and all 
your respectable family, in your present distress, which 
must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from 
a cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall 
be wanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a 
misfortune — or that may comfort you, under a circum- 
stance that must be of all others most afflicting to a 
parent's mind. 

The death of your daughter would have been a bless- 
ing in comparison of this. 

And it is the more to be lamented, because there is 
reason to suppose, as my dear Charlotte informs me, that 
this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has 
proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence ; though, 
at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and 
Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own 
disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not 
be guilty of such an enormity, at so early an 
age. 

However that may be, you are grievously to be 
pitied ; in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. 
2E 417 



Lady Catherine's Feelings 

Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, 
to whom I have related the affair. 

They agree with me in apprehending that this false 
step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes 
of all the others ; for who, as Lady Catherine herself 
condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such 
a family ? And this consideration leads me moreover 
to reflect with augmented satisfaction, on a certain 
event of last November ; for had it been otherwise, 
I must have been involved in all your sorrow and 
disgrace. 

Let me advise you then, my dear sir, to console your- 
self as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy 
child from your affection for ever, and leave her to 
reap the fruits of her own heinous offence. — I am, dear 
Sir, etc. 

IX 

Mr. Bennet dismisses Mr. Collins 

DEAR SIR, — I must trouble you once more for con- 
gratulations. Elizabeth will soon be the wife of 
Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you can. 
But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew; he 
has more to give. — Yours sincerely, etc. 

X 

Mr. Weller, senior, becomes the happy Bear of ill news 

Markis Crabby, Dorken, Wednesday 
Y DEAR SAMMLE,— I am wery sorry to have the 



M 



pleasure of being a Bear of ill news your Mother 
in law cort cold consekens of imprudently settin too long 
418 



"She paid the last Pike" 

on the damp grass in the rain a hearin of a shepherd 
who warnt able to leave off till late at night owen to his 
havin vound his-self up vith brandy and vater and not 
being able to stop his-self till he got a little sober which 
took a many hours to do the doctor says that if she'd 
svallo'd varm brandy and vater artervards insted of afore 
he mightn't have been no vus her veels wos immedetly 
greased and everythink done to set her agoin as could 
be inwented your farther had hopes as she vould have 
vorked round as usual but just as she wos a turnen the 
corner my boy she took the wrong road and vent down 
hill vith a welocity you never see and notvithstandin 
that the drag wos put on directly by the medikel man it 
wornt of no use at all for she paid the last pike at twenty 
minutes afore six o'clock yesterday evenin havin done 
the jouney wery much under the reglar time vich praps 
was partly owen to her haven taken in wery little luggage 
by the vay your father says that if you vill come and see 
me Sammy he vill take it as a wery great favor for I am 
wery lonely Samivel n b he vill have it spelt that vay 
vich I say ant right and as there is sich a many things 
to settle he is sure your guvner won't object of course he 
vill not Sammy for I knows him better so he sends his 
dooty in which I join and am Samivel infernally yours, 

Tony Veller 



419 



w 



w 



POSTSCRIPT VI 

A model 
Mr. Rogers to Lady Dufferin 

ILL you dine with me on Wednesday ? 

Lady DufiFerin to Mr. Rogers 
ON'T I ? 



420 



TERMINAL NOTE 

MY thanks are due, and are very gratefully given, to 
many owners of copyright for allowing this book 
to be much more representative than it could have been 
without them : to Miss Georgina Hogarth for the letters 
of Charles Dickens ; and also, for other rights in that 
great man's work, to Mr. A. P. Watt, to Messrs. Mac- 
millan & Co., to Col. Ward and Mr. John Murray; to 
Mr. W. P. Frith, R.A., for the letters of Shirley Brooks; 
to Sir George Otto Trevelyan for the letters of Macaulay ; 
to the Rev. Bridgeman G. F. C. W. Boughton-Leigh for 
the correspondence between Lady Shuckburgh and Lady 
Seymour; to Mr. W. L. Dodgson for the letters of Lewis 
Carroll ; to Mr. C. L. Graves for a letter from his Memoir 
of Sir George Grove \ to Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co. for 
the letters of Thackeray, and for adding their permis- 
sion to Mr. Anstey's for the citation of Dr. Grimstone's 
dictated masterpiece ; to Messrs. Longmans & Co. for 
the extracts from the Memoir and Correspondence of 
Miss Berry; to Mr. A. G. B. Russell and Messrs. 
Methuen for two letters of William Blake ; to Mr. 
Edward Arnold for two letters of Maria Edgeworth ; to 
Mr. Alexander Carlyle and the various publishers for the 
letters of Jane Welsh Carlyle (Longmans & Co.), the early 
letters of Thomas Carlyle (Macmillan & Co.), and lor 
421 



Acknowledgments 

Carlyle's account of meeting Queen Victoria (John Lane) ; 
to Messrs. Macmillan & Co. for the letters of Jane Austen 
and Edward FitzGerald ; to Mrs, Hugh Carter for 
Thackeray's new letter to her father-in-law ; to Mr. 
Lloyd Osbourne for two letters of R. L. Stevenson ; 
and to Mr. Ewing T. Irwin for T. E. Brown's description 
of the Jungfrau. I regret exceedingly, with Prof. Charles 
Eliot Norton, that the publishers of the letters of James 
Russell Lowell could not see their way to allow any of 
them to appear in this book. 

The Roman letters are either from the translations in 
Elegant Extracts or in William Roberts's History of 
Letter Writings Gray's letters are from Mr. Gosse's 
edition ; Lamb's are from Messrs. Methuen's edition ; 
Keats's from Mr. Buxton Forman's edition ; Swift's 
letters, for the most part, from Mr. Stanley Lane- 
Poole's edition. I found the Parish Clerk's letter, on 
page 274, in the diary of the Rev. Juhus Young, a 
treasury of agreeable egoism. Bob Thoms' own copy 
of his letter of resignation was given to me by Mr. A. J. 
Gaston. Sergeant Dunt's application for fishing-rights 
is from Mr. H. O. Nethercote's history of the Pytchley 
(S. Low & Co.), and George Forester's account of Tom 
Moody's funeral from Thormanby's Kings of the Hunti7tg 
i^r'<?/^ (Hutchinson). Lastly, I would say that I found 
Messrs. Nimmo's British Letter-Writers very useful. 

E. V. L. 

July, 1907 



422 



" As life runs on the road grows strange, 
With faces new, — and near the end 
The milestones into headstones change : — 
^Neath every one a friend." 

J. R. Lowell. 



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